


The Fettered Lark

by hoomhum



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And also when I said pining I meant that too, Angst, Anti-Witcher Sentiments, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Children In Danger, Curse Breaking, Curse related non-con elements, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I meant it when I said slow burn, Injury, Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Multi, Murder, No Non-Con Between Main Characters, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Warlord Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, all the Witcher Schools live at Kaer Mohren I don't make the rules (wait yes I do), idiots to lovers, references to cannibalism, temporary mutism, the pining levels in this are ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28409268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: While the Witchers wintered at Kaer Mohren, Kaedwen rotted below them. One casualty of that rot was the voice of a bard, taken by a sorceress in the court of a monstrous king and suddenly the Wolves can no longer justify holding themselves apart from politics. Can they break the curse, and if they do, what else might they gain along the way?
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 262
Kudos: 467





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> Welcome to my gigantic sort of an Accidental Warlord AU, sort of something more! What started as a "How did Geralt become a Warlord" story morphed into a "Jaskier loses his voice and we got three boys pining for each other" story. Expect regular (at least) weekly updates. I churned out 50k of this during November and didn't get halfway through the tale.
> 
> Please let me know if there are things I should tag for. I'll give specific warnings if we come up on common triggers in the chapter notes.
> 
> Edited to add: Ah! What a boor am I! I forgot to thank the lovely betas and early readers that made this possible. Particularly the wonderful person who read along every day of November, HastaLux, and Paialovespie. You're all three wonderful. <3 <3 <3

Kaer Mohren is full now that all of the schools have come to settle in the safety of its halls, and while that's a blessing it's also something of a curse. They don't want for food or supplies, for potion materials or even experts; they've blacksmiths and silversmiths, and leatherworkers— Witchers who've lost limbs or eyes and settled into a trade that supports their brethren rather than tempt death by risking a contract they're no longer equipped for. 

But the halls still ring with the screams of boys, of children in pain, crying out for mothers who have abandoned them. Boys being beaten, boys driven to the brink of death, boys left wheezing on the cobblestone. To say nothing of the howls that fill the air during the Trial of the Grasses. 

Despite the cloistering of the trainees and the bustle of the rest of the keep, it's a sound that no one can quite escape. Heightened senses will do that. Geralt watches with frustration as his brothers' tempers grow short over winter, while the Killer is still blocked by snow and no sane person can pass without proving the path's name. 

Eskel and Lambert pile together in his room, taking comfort from one another to drive out the sound of night terrors that echo through the halls. It's not only the trainees that suffer them, but no one dares to speak when a Viper or a Manticore shows up for breakfast looking like they haven't slept at all. Even Geralt and his brothers suffer from them sometimes, though sharing rooms and sleeping all in a pile reduces their frequency some. It's not quite enough.

Thus, it's no surprise that when Geralt carries his bags to the stables on the first day the temperatures rise just slightly above freezing and finds both Eskel and Lambert already tacking up their horses and expecting him.

"Sleeping in, Wolf?" Lambert throws over his shoulder, not looking at him.

Geralt ignores him, meeting Eskel's smile with a small nod. He feeds Roach a squirreled away winter apple in greeting. 

"Ready to get out of here, Roach?"

His brothers know better than to ready her for him. Geralt prefers to do it himself and the mare doesn't like anyone else getting near unless it's an emergency or they have food in hand. Some of the trainers have suggested this is a trait to be beaten out of her, but they falter at Geralt's glare and he's challenged anyone who's actually threatened to do it. 

The Killer threatens to live up to its name as they make the trek down from the keep and toward the town below, patches of ice covered in snow undetectable until they've slipped on them. The first night under the stars in a season is a freezing one, but Eskel's dragon-strong Igni manages to dry out a campsite for them and it is, while not comfortable, bearable.

They dream less, surrounded by snow drifts instead of stone halls that echo with screams.

They reach Coldpass, the little town at the base of the mountain, on the third day and Lambert chooses to keep on. He gives no explanation, but Geralt and Eskel know him well enough not to need one. There's a wild Cat Witcher out there somewhere, and Lambert has some kind of bond with the man. It's reason enough for him to push forward on his grey gelding, leaving the noticeboard to Eskel and Geralt.

There's no way to completely monster-proof a village, but Coldpass is usually one of the safer areas, given how often Witchers come through. They know how to treat their dead, which accounts for how many wraiths and necrophages are created, and the more sentient monsters are smart enough to stay out of the way of a path well traveled by monster hunters. It's not a place to earn coin, so much as it is to spend it. The tradespeople always deal with them fairly and there is little of the disrespect and bigotry Witchers face elsewhere on the Path.

This year, though, something is different. Something has changed while they were cooped up in Kaer Mohren.

The streets are deserted. No laughter or chatter rings through the air. No children dart between the houses, evading chores as children are wont to do. Snow is still heavy on the ground, but there's still work to be done in a village of this size, and usually evidence of play in the form of little forts or snowmen. Yet there's no one out and about.

Geralt can sense heartbeats; the populace lives, still, but for some reason they do so behind closed doors. There's no open marketplace anymore, only a few shops whose windows have heavy wooden shutters. Exchanging wary glances, they head for the stables beside the inn. 

No stableboy greets them, but the innkeeper's husband steps out to take their horses with a nod. His expression is tight, wary, but he lets them settle their horses and provides feed without up-charging them. Geralt holds his tongue, taking in the unsubtle scent of fear. It's an uncommon one in Coldpass, and the stench of it grows stronger when they step into the inn.

The common room is uncrowded, despite the fact that they've arrived at a mealtime. No one seems to be staying to eat. The innkeeper, a woman Geralt has known the face of since she was a babe in arms, is doling out stew to a couple. The ashen faced pair hurry out, bread rolls tucked into their pockets. The room is otherwise empty, save the innkeeper and the cook in the kitchen. 

"A room," Eskel says, approaching the woman. "And two meals, please."

Geralt drops his things beside a table in the corner, waiting and watching as the normally cheerful, effusive woman silently collects bowls and a key for them. Eskel thanks her, but it earns him no favor. 

"You think it's my charming good looks?" Eskel asks. Geralt rolls his eyes and kicks his ankle beneath the table.

"There's something wrong here," he says, unnecessarily. Eskel gives him a look that says  _ no shit _ as he digs into his stew. Geralt concedes, picking up his own spoon and watching as another man steps inside. It's no strain on his hearing to listen for any conversation, but there is none. Just traded grimaces and an exchange of coins before the newcomer leaves as well. 

"Noticeboard or alderman first?" Whatever's scaring the town isn't likely to be so much it could overwhelm even a Witcher on his own, but by unspoken agreement, they've decided not to part ways just yet.

Geralt lifts his bowl to his mouth, draining the last of the broth before setting it aside and answering. "Noticeboard. We'll look like fools asking for answers if they're posted for everyone to see."

The noticeboard holds both answers and questions for them, in the form of six worn pieces of parchment, their edges torn and the ink ranging from fairly fresh to faded. The first describes a missing child, offering payment for her safe return. Last seen during the harvest festival. The other five are careful memorials.

_ In memory of Mela. _

_...memory of Cairdra. _

_...of Hret _

_ … of Vinart _

_ … of Kidrel. Taken from us on the eve of her sixth birthday. We will remember her. _

There are no other postings. No pleas for aid during the slim winter months, no celebratory births or engagements, no sales of goods or livestock. They share another glance and head as one to the alderman's house in search of answers.

Geralt bangs at the door first, and when no one answers Eskel pounds his fist against the wood again.

"We've come from Kaer Mohren and we know you're home," he calls. There are two heartbeats inside. The man and his wife, both wretched with fear. "We mean you no harm."

His words open the door for them, revealing a drawn old man. 

"Witchers," he says in greeting, the door still half closed. Geralt has long stopped expressing offense at such gestures. He can force the door if he must. If it makes people feel safer from the monsters they believe them to be, then fine. "We've no contracts for you."

"No contracts?" Eskel asks. Geralt is content to let him do the talking for now. He tends to be the more diplomatic of the pair of them. "Or no coin? The folk round here have been kind to us, Alderman. We would not leave you in trouble."

If they were anywhere else, Vesemir would have their hides for that kind of talk. But the people of Coldpass are as close to their own as they have. The community is one that looks after them, and they look after it in return. 

The alderman hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of them and then past them, down the road out of town. Geralt wonders what's made him so cagey in the pale midafternoon light. 

"Come in," he says finally. "I doubt there's much you can do for us, but if you insist on knowing, then I shall tell you."

The alderman's home is less than a manor but more than a hut. It's small and well stocked for the season, warmed by a fire in the hearth. An aged woman sits beside the fire, spinning wool into yarn with a deft, practiced hand, and her eyes go wide when the Witchers step inside.

"Onfres…" she warns. He waves her off.

"They want to know. They should be told."

Her lips thin in clear disagreement, but she sets aside her wool. "I'll put on the kettle."

"Vodka would be more suited to the story, but we've little in our stores," Onfres says, settling at the rickety wooden table that takes center place in the room. "And I've heard your kind don't appreciate it the way men do."

"It takes a lot to get a Witcher drunk, if that's what you mean," Eskel confirms easily. "But not as much to get him warm. Tea's fine, thank you."

Geralt intends to stand, but Eskel glares him into sitting, so he does so, lowering himself carefully into the rickety wooden chair beside his brother and watching the alderman with no small amount of impatience. If there's danger then they need to speak of it. Enough small talk. 

But Eskel has always been the charming one, even when people can't see past the scars that have flayed open his face, so he sits quietly and accepts the too small clay cup of warm tea. It's just boiled and feels good against his frozen hands, which isn't nothing he supposes.

"It started with Netham's girl. A man came to town just before the harvest festival. A stranger. Stayed at the inn, bought things from the market. Nothing unusual, except that we don't get many travelers our way save for you Witchers. He stayed three days and when he left, he took Mela along with him."

"By force?" Geralt asks.

"She was six," Onfres says with a glower. "He hadn't romanced her, if that's what you mean. Her family didn't sell her off. They sent riders after him and he— he pulled some kind of order, had the king's seal and everything. Said he could take a girl."

His hands are clasped into fists on the table. You can't fight a royal edict. Not without incurring someone's wrath. 

"Then it happened again, a few days later. Then a week. They took boys too. Just little lads. Babes older than three, but under ten. All of them. Every week until there weren't any left."

"The same man?" Eskel asks, expression hard. 

Onfres shakes his head. "Sometimes, but not always. There were others. He came with them, but he wasn't always there. They took the children and whatever else they claimed they needed. Food. Drink. Coin, on occasion. We don't have much to offer, not like some settlements."

"And he always had an edict?" 

The alderman nods.

Eskel and Geralt share another look. It is odd and, perhaps, monstrous. But it isn't a monster. Not a contract that they can take. Not an evil they can kill with silver. The alderman sighs, getting to his feet at their expressions.

"I know," he says. His voice is almost gentle. "I told you. No work for Witchers here. Not today." 

It doesn't feel right just to leave, though. Not when half the town is hiding in terror.

"You said babes older than three," Geralt says, stalling at the door. "How many are left younger than that?"

"Four," Onfres confesses. "Two just born, one in arms, and the other will be three come next month." 

Geralt heads for the inn, keeping that in mind. He hears Eskel bid the alderman stay safe, hears his tread, hurried to catch up. 

"Next month," he says under his breath as his brother approaches. "A month, and they may be in danger again."

"It's men," Eskel cautions. There's anger beneath his countenance. He rarely lets it show on his face, conscious of how it might terrify those they are dealing with in town. "We don't hunt men, Geralt."

That isn't strictly true, not for Witchers in general— ask any Cat or Viper if they haven't hunted men when time or coin called for it— nor for either of them personally. But there's little to go on here, and if the alderman spoke truly they wouldn't be talking about hunting just any man, but someone working on the authority of the king. 

"We should warn the others," Geralt says finally, dropping his chin to his chest and breathing out slowly. "And resupply."

They visit the shops that are still open, the buildings ringing the marketplace, where they barter and sell back some of the goods they have too much of at the keep and buy what they haven't enough of. There are skeins of yarn, drawn and dyed by the alderman's wife and ready to be woven or knitted into something warm. Geralt tucks a skein into his bag and trades the half the mountain flowers he has in stock for those that grow more prodigiously in the valley. Their potions are well stocked now, but it doesn't hurt to have supplies to brew more on the road.

They encounter parents of children who have been taken. One man spits at them, while another begs on his knees that they find his little boy. His wife pulls him back inside, only to come out again and offer a small pouch of coin. It's everything they have. 

They refuse.

It makes Geralt's jaw clench.

There's stew again for supper, and they leave a scrawled note to whichever of their brethren stop by next, with a request to send word to Vesemir. Hopefully it will save the alderman having to tell the sorry tale again and again as the keep spills its contents to the Path come spring.

With nothing else to do, no one else beside them and no hunt to prepare for, they settle in for several rounds of Gwent. Once Geralt loses three of five, Eskel takes pity on him and packs up his deck.

"Come on, Wolf. To bed with you."

He lets Eskel bully him upstairs and into their shared room— no use spending recklessly this early in the season— then onto one of the two beds. The inn is better appointed than many they will stay in throughout the year; the mattresses well stuffed, the quilts clean and heavy. The pillows are fresh and smell of nothing more than linen and feathers. 

"Whatever this is, it will take care of itself," Eskel says, because he knows Geralt's mind as well as his own. He can clearly see how it chafes at him, the reckless cruelty that men turn upon one another. "Sooner or later, they're going to take the wrong child."

"Hmm." He's right, but Geralt doesn't like it, doesn't appreciate being helpless. He's never liked seeing suffering and being unable to assist. It's why he's taken too many jobs without pay, despite the rules that Vesemir and the other trainers beat into them as children. He's always hated to see poor men die and rich men survive because one could afford to hire a Witcher when the other couldn't.  _ It's the way of the world _ , the masters would tell him. Perhaps. But it isn't a good way.

"Stop thinking," Eskel says. 

Glancing over, Geralt sees that the other man has already stripped off his armor and boots. He begins to do the same, blinking slowly as Eskel's hands tangle with his own at the buckles.

"You want to track down the man with the edict and see if the seal is genuine, don't you?" he asks quietly, as he deftly unfastens Geralt's armor, piece by piece and sets it aside. He kneels before Geralt, tugging his boots free. Then he rests his forehead against Geralt's knee.

"You don't have to—" Geralt begins, the words trapped in his throat. He wraps a hand around Eskel's neck, not holding him in place, but holding him nevertheless. 

"I'm coming, Wolf." When Eskel gets to his feet, it's with a creak that comes from bones that have been broken too many times to heal perfectly. "We'll leave in the morning. Need a rest and a trail to follow first."

They crawl into the same bed together, Geralt's chest pressed to Eskel's back, his knees tucked in against Eskel's in the only position that will fit them both beneath the blanket. There's little need for it, given how warm they run, but they learned long ago to take comfort when it is offered, at least when it's offered in the safety of a private room, away from prying eyes and those who might view such acceptance as weakness. 

In the morning they get a heading from the alderman and press on, rested, but with expressions grim.


	2. Chapter 2

It doesn't take long for them to reach the conclusion that somehow while they wintered at Kaer Mohren, Kaedwen rotted below them. 

Every settlement they pass is missing at least a couple of children. Most are missing all of them in the age range that Onfres relayed to them. The peasant families are more fearful of them than usual, and contracts are few and far between. The nobles say nothing of any significance and refuse to host them.

Diplomacy fails them and Geralt turns to menacing the local population as they travel. It turns out most of them don't know anything, but a few can confirm that a man and a child came this way. Sometimes a few men and a child. They can describe the horses and sometimes the children, but no one can describe the men. They wear nondescript hoods and camp more often than they stay in towns. 

Their trek leads them further away from Kaer Mohren. It leads southwest, toward the capitol. They still haven't caught a glimpse of any of the men, or seen the edict. 

"What if it isn't fake," Geralt says lowly one night as they tend to their supper over a fire. "What if it's leading exactly where we think it is?"

"Then we'll have to decide what's what, I suppose," Eskel shrugs.

Along the Buina, they take Drowner contracts. They don't pay much, especially not between the two of them, but it's easy work. Mechanical, reliable, and necessary. Some things, at least, are the same. Then the trail moves away from the river, pointing south. Pointing at Ard Carraigh.

It's been two weeks now. There's no true evidence.

"Lambert was headed to Hagge," Eskel says. "We could follow the river?"

"Hmm." Geralt turns Roach away from the fork in the road, setting her on the course that follows the Buina south instead of toward Ard Carraigh. Scorpion trods faithfully at his side and Eskel makes no comment about the slight decrease of tension in his shoulders and jaw.

If there is to be a conflict, he would rather face it with both his brothers at his side.

They pick up Lambert's trail, obvious in recently completed contracts and torn down notices. There are still children missing and stories of riders who have taken them, but they aren't heading in the right direction any more to follow the riders and that's damning, though not conclusive. 

Coin runs short. Following in another Witcher's footsteps means little work, and they spend what they have on keeping the horses maintained, setting aside just a bit for themselves. It's camping and hunting the whole way, which isn't wholly unpleasant once they get a bit further south, but sometimes there just isn't much to eat and they go to bed with emptier bellies than wholly comfortable.

Another week of travel puts them well past Daevon, closer to the southern border than the northern, when Lambert literally stumbles over their campsite.

"Shit!" Lambert pulls back on the reins of the horse that had nearly thundered through their campfire. It is not the same grey gelding they had seen him off on, and it rears, unseating the figure riding pillion. The figure in question throws his hands back, and backflips off of the rearing horse, landing on his feet several yards away.

Eskel Axiis the horse with a practiced hand, soothing its terror, while Lambert slides out of the saddle.    


"Aiden?"

"I'm fine, pup," the Cat Witcher responds, dusting his hands on his trousers. "No thanks to your riding."

"Fuck you." Lambert turns back to his brothers, the widow's peak of his hair slick with sweat, an edge of panic just barely buried beneath his eyes. "There's something wrong in Kaedwen." 

Geralt nods, taking his seat again. Eskel pickets the new horse with Roach and Scorpion, and helps Lambert and the Cat— Aiden— with their bags. 

"Are you running?"

"Not urgently," Aiden replies, giving Geralt a lopsided smile. "There's a noble a few leagues back who won't be too happy in the morning, but the pup's horse went lame and we needed another."

"And your horse?" Geralt asks, raising a brow. 

"Never bothered with 'em. Don't travel with more than I can carry." 

Geralt has always been of the opinion that Cats are crazy. Perhaps this one more than most. But somehow Aiden has Lambert's regard, and that means something. The way Lambert tolerates a nickname, when before he'd only begrudgingly allowed it from Vesemir, speaks louder than anything else. Others have tried and earned scars for it. When Aiden says pup Lambert just looks the same low level pissed off that he always does.

"If you've fucking finished," Lambert interrupts, dumping his bag beside Geralt at the fire. "There's something rotten going on."

Lambert actually has food in his packs, fresh cheese and bread. He doesn't say a word when Eskel digs it out and divvies it up, knowing that his brothers would do the same if he was in need. They share their stash of winter apples around, and Aiden passes a flask to Geralt. 

It doesn't burn like White Gull, but nearly. He hands it to Eskel after a sip.

"The children in Coldpass were taken," he says finally. "What do you know?"

Lambert tells them, and it's much of what they expected. Children being abducted, whisked away by men with royal edicts. Always in that age range, always seemingly, in the direction of Ard Carraigh.

"Aiden said it started in the fall," he says with a scowl. "Just sporadic enough for no one to put the pieces together. They're targeting the little villages and hamlets, not the cities."

"Too dangerous to go for the cities, maybe," Eskel suggests. "Populace might notice and rise up. But the country folk? Too spread out, unlikely to combine forces. No one cares about peasant farmers."

"But get this," Lambert says, drawing closer. "He got ahold of one of the edicts."

Geralt's breath doesn't do anything so common as catch in his throat. That sort of surprise is too human; the mutagens took care of it. But he does tip his head toward the Cat, who ranges around the outskirts of their campsite, apparently too restless to sit.

"Got two of 'em," Aiden says, canines flashing in the firelight. "I'd bet my life, they were both real. King Henselt's royal seal, plain as day."

"Fuck," Eskel breaths. Geralt hums in agreement. The king, up to something, abducting children and sending men out to do it for him. They knew this was a possibility, but hearing it is something different altogether.

"What do we do?" Lambert asks. It's gratifying to hear him ask. To know that this isn't an issue for just one of them to solve, but a fight that they are facing together. Even so, all eyes are turned to Geralt. Lambert passes him the flask again and he has a sip, watching the fire as the alcohol burns down his throat.

"There are no answers here," he declares finally. "We head to Ard Carraigh."

Eskel takes the flask from him again and drains it, before tossing it back to Aiden. "To Ard Carraigh."

Instead of backtracking, they decide to approach the city from the south. If there's information to be found, they'll benefit from visiting more settlements, rather than treading the same ground twice. They cross the river and head east first, conscious of the eyes that follow a group of Witchers traveling together.

There'll be no staying in towns, now. No establishment will take all four of them, not without coercion and these people have seen enough hardship, enough cruelty in their lives. There's no need to live up to the expectations they have about Witchers.

Much to Geralt's surprise, their party grows to five when Letho finds them just outside a barren hamlet. He says nothing, taking in their small company from beneath his hood and pulling his stallion into line behind Eskel.

Coën turns up next, and perhaps by that point it shouldn't be a surprise. They are weeks away from the first full melt of spring; Witchers have streamed from the keep for days on end now, having spent the season training, healing, and bettering themselves. Even a blind dog could tell that something was amiss in the lands below. Perhaps it's not so odd that even Witchers from the other schools are convening with him and his brothers.

One Witcher is reason for gossip; a pair creates concern. Six Witchers riding together sends ripples across the land and Geralt can't find it within himself to worry about that. Word gets out about where they're headed and why. The common folk don't seem to believe it, can't comprehend that monsters would be interested in answers or justice. They're still terrified and sometimes hostile. But the ripples are helpful, nevertheless.

Their convoy grows.

It seems very few Witchers have any interest in leaving Kaedwen, not once they've caught a whiff of what's going on. Some they meet on the road, others they encounter in the villages as they stop in for information or supplies. Witchers from every school find them, consolidate their supplies and knowledge, and join their grim march on the capitol.

Geralt doesn't think much of it, keeping company with his brothers and watching Lambert trade barbs with the Cat. They spar in the evenings to keep their hands in and to quiet their rioting minds. Aiden is a challenging partner; Geralt is used by now to his brothers' tricks and finds himself evenly matched by them. The school of the Cat relies on combat that utilizes an even higher level of dexterity than the Wolves'. He kicks and flips, dodging blows that Eskel or Lambert would have absorbed.

It takes longer by minutes than any bout with his brothers, but Geralt comes out on top.

Dexterity can't beat a body flooded by a second round of mutagens.

Aiden is in good spirits about it, though, giving him a nod before throwing himself onto the ground beside Lambert. This seems to open the floodgates, and more Witchers he doesn't know approach and offer to test his strength.

There is a certain low level of trust, perhaps born of shared trauma and experience that binds together the men of every school who now winter at Kaer Mohren, but the schools still mostly socialize among themselves. What is it about the road that makes Vipers and Cranes and Griffins interested in sparring with Geralt?

He beats five more new partners before declaring himself done by settling beside Eskel at the fire. His swords don't really need cleaning, but he brings out a whetstone to sharpen them and grunts at the way Eskel is watching him.

"Sometimes I forget you're the best of us, Wolf," Eskel says quietly.

Geralt shakes his hair out of his eyes, the white strands glinting in the firelight. "With this as a reminder, you forget what they made me?"

He can barely remember what his hair looked like before the second round of mutagens. He's entirely forgotten what his eyes were like. Eskel's were a soft brown. Scrunched up in concern, or anger. Wide in terror. He knew them better than he knew his own.

"That's not what I meant." Eskel looks over the clearing they've settled in for the evening, across the many fires, tents, and bedrolls. "They don't follow you because you're fast and strong."

"They're not following me," Geralt denies. It's a ridiculous notion. He packs away his things. "We'll be in sight of the walls tomorrow."

"And then?" Eskel asks. He's still watching Geralt, but Geralt doesn't look over at him as he prepares his bedroll. He lays out his swords within easy reach, despite the dozens of other Witchers in the clearing.

"Then we find answers."

~

As Geralt predicted, they do come into view of the walls of Ard Carraigh the next day. The city stands above the rest of the land, on a tall outcropping of rock, almost as though a mountain had been leveled by some giant hand to make way for the metropolis. At the compass points of the city are roads that lead to the gates, following gentle slopes that have been built for that purpose alone. It's a fairly defensible position: there's a sheer drop on either side of the slope the higher you get, and the fields below and beyond are empty of anything resembling cover.

What they see first when they arrive, though, is an encampment of Witchers.

There are perhaps twenty of them, mostly Bears. Witchers of the Bear School are easy to spot at a distance for their sheer size, and though several of this contingent are lounging around on the ground there are a number facing the city, with their swords at their sides. Watching.

Geralt dismounts Roach, leaving her to graze with the other horses nearby, and joins the silent sentries. 

"They've closed the gates," Junod grunts beside him after a moment. "All of 'em."

"Hm." Geralt shades his eyes against the sun, picking out the gates in the distance. There are, of course, other ways into the city, but they require leaving the horses behind and relying on stealth. Witchers aren't particularly known for their ability to move about incognito. It can be done, but it complicates things. "Have you told them what you want?"

Junod shakes his head. 

"North gate was closed. Carried on to the east. They barred us from that one as well. Here we are."

"The west?" 

"A group went to stake it out. Can't imagine they forgot it."

"Mm."

The southern gates are closest to the palace inside the city. It makes the most sense to enter from this direction. It also makes the most sense to consolidate their forces and show a combined front. He tilts his head toward Eskel.

"Lambert, see if you can't find someone who likes to ride fast," Eskel says, turning to their brother in turn. "We'll gather our allies and wait them out here."

"Leave a trio of Witchers at every other gate," Geralt rumbles. "No trade comes in. They can deal with us, or they can wait a week. Round up some coin, in case the merchants don't want to wait or to leave empty handed. We'll see it gets back to its owners after."

"I better go with," Aiden chimes in. "Your ugly mug won't get any collections going."

Lambert punches him, but they keep moving toward the rest of the waiting Witchers as they brawl, so Geralt holds his tongue. 

"A siege?" Junod says, turning back to face the city. "We won't last in a siege."

Geralt nods, unswayed by the elder Witcher's prediction. Eskel reads his expression with clarity.

"We won't need to."

~

The captain of the guard that meets them— for a certain definition of meet— could have been Vesemir in another life. If Vesemir was at least a foot shorter and considerably less scarred. He stands at the top of the gate and calls down to the contingent of Witchers that approaches from their camp. 

As a courtesy, Geralt brings only his brothers, Aiden, Letho, Coën, and Junod within crossbow bolt range. 

As a courtesy, Geralt assumes, they aren't immediately rained upon by arrows. Not that a simple Quen couldn't have deflected them, but it's the intent that counts.

"We have no contracts for Witchers," the Captain, recognizable by an ugly and outstanding plume on the top of his helmet, shouts down at them. "Especially none for Witchers who bring an army to our gates."

Geralt glances back down the road, to where the rest of the Witchers mill about in waiting. He wouldn't have called it an army, but then again one Witcher is worth at least ten men and most humans are well aware of that. Men like to spread nasty, untrue rumors about mutants, but they have one thing quite correct: they are strong and they are dangerous when they want to be.

"We seek an audience with King Henselt," he says, lifting his chin to meet the man's gaze. "Not a contract."

"Seek whatever you like, but seek it elsewhere," the Captain replies. "You aren't welcome here."

There is bravado in his voice and the men around him laugh at his words. They feel safe behind their walls, which must seem impenetrable to them. Fools.

"We will not leave until we have spoken to the King. Either let us enter or have him speak from there," Geralt tells them. He nods. "You have our terms."

It is on the way back to camp that he realizes Eskel had the right of it. Whatever his intentions, these Witchers  _ are _ following him _. _ Not just his brothers and Aiden, either. Junod listened. Coën stood by his side. Letho offered his silent support. He doesn't stumble, but his foot hesitates in its tread; coincidence is all, right? Convenience. Witchers work alone.

Though the past several years have been evidence to the contrary.

The schools combining, fortifying themselves together in Kaer Mohren. Sharing resources and knowledge. More and more of his brothers traveling in pairs, like Lambert and Aiden. His own reluctance to leave Eskel for the season. Could there be more to it than that?

He shakes off the thought as they reach camp, recognizing that musings do little good in place of action.

Those who know Ard Carraigh best come forward with their knowledge and with the names of contacts they have within the city. Suggestions are offered, unnecessarily so, but nevertheless Geralt finds himself listening to Witchers of all backgrounds and experiences as they chatter and sometimes brawl over the correct course of action for making the king see reason. 

Under his breath, which is still loud enough for anyone who is paying attention to hear, Geralt speaks to Eskel.

"We go after sundown, just a small group. The sewers are built atop Elven ruins and will get us to the palace. We get inside and confront Henselt."

"And then?"

Geralt shrugs. "Depends on what we find."

He thinks it is a solid enough plan, or he wouldn't have proposed it, but Eskel reacts to his response with a roll of his eyes. They could spend hours working through every contingency, but Geralt is much happier to go in and react, rather than plan for each one. These are only humans, after all. The worst they can do is kill him and it's unlikely that they'd get that far with his brothers at his back.

"How many, then?" Eskel asks, glancing around at their retinue of sparring, arguing Witchers. Geralt considers.

"You and Lambert," he says. "Then five others. Don't take volunteers. They'll all want to come."

Eskel snorts, nodding in agreement. Neither can actually blame the others. Most ride hard for the borders, unwilling to tread ground their brothers have already walked when it's been cleared of contracts. The first few weeks of spring are a race to isolate again, before settling into one's route and turning to the neverending work. The majority of them haven't actually fought anything in weeks. There is a tension riding high in the air, one that they luckily seem to be happy taking out on each other or by hunting game in the scattered plains that surround the city.

Eskel claps Geralt's shoulder and nods, heading off to find Lambert and discuss the plan. In the meantime, Geralt settles onto his knees and lets his mind settle into the familiar thrum of meditation. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your hearts, friends, we have to get through the rest of the hurt before we earn the comfort bit! Please cast an eye over the additional tags and take care of yourselves. We find out what's up with the children in this chapter and it's... not good. 
> 
> There is also a chunk that is particularly bloody, which my betas voted no worse than canon, but if blood and children gets you, please skip ahead starting at the sentence "The room beyond is cold and dark" and proceed directly to "Geralt eases the door open". I promise it's a different door, haha. I will include a short summary in the end notes that is not graphic. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your amazing response to the first two chapters! You're all so lovely. <3 Many thanks again to my betas and cheerleaders

Just after the sun has retreated below the horizon, eight Witchers leave their comrades. Eyes glinting with swallowed Cat potions, the small band stalks toward the escarpment upon which the city is built, ducking into the shadows and keeping their heads covered by hooded cloaks. 

A quarter mile to the west, there is a gated sewer door, whose lock gives under Aiden's dextrous picks. Geralt is the first inside, stepping as silently as possible in the shallow, noxious water. The rest of the group follows him as the door creaks closed.

"Axel," Geralt murmurs, turning to the other Cat Witcher that has accompanied them. "How well do you know the way?"

The man tilts his head to the side, considering. "Never run this route directly," he admits. "But I spent a week down here on a job. I can get us there."

Geralt nods. "Lead on."

It's not the worst walk he's ever endured. Geralt has been in sewers before, and in messier, bloodier lairs full of the rotting dead. The stench of feces and piss is rancid, but it's diluted some by rain water and he's sensible enough to breathe through his mouth and filter out whatever he can still smell that's irrelevant. He's not fool enough to try to dampen his senses completely, which is what gives him the forewarning he needs to draw his sword before they round the next corner.

Fishguts and limescale.

"Drowners," he says quietly. There's a rasp of silver around him as his companions draw their weapons as well.

Lambert darts forward, moving toward the sound of splashes. Geralt holds out a hand for the others to stay back. In these tight quarters there's more chance of hitting friend than foe if they all rush in at once. The fight is quickly over and Lambert steps back around the corner, giving Geralt a nod. 

He waves at Axel to lead them on again. 

"Dibs on the next set," Aiden mutters behind him. Someone— Lambert, he suspects, but possibly Eskel — cuffs the Witcher around the ears for it. 

They do encounter more drowners, though no more than any single Witcher can handle at a time. Axel leads them through the slimy, wet tunnels carefully, pausing every so often to get his bearings, and then finally lighting up when the tunnels narrow and he comes to a single corridor.

This, he tells them, is where the sewers and the ancient elven ruins they were built atop merge. The uneven geography necessitates it. And yet... 

There is a broad iron door at the end of the corridor, so new that its fastenings have hardly any hint of mold or muck. The door seems new to Axel as well, as the Cat steps back and gives an audible "Huh."

"Aiden?" 

While Aiden steps forward with his lockpicks and the others wait, Geralt closes his eyes to listen. He can hear the small splashes of footsteps, the breathing and heartbeats of the seven other Witchers on this side of the door, and the scraping and clinking of Aiden's picks against the lock, but there is something else as well. Something just outside his range of hearing. 

Eskel must notice his heart pick up, because he gives Geralt a glance and adjusts his gauntlets. 

"Be ready," is all Geralt says.

Behind him, he hears Coën, Junod, and Aubry still, their attention focusing on the door rather than on the area surrounding it. There is a soft snick as Axel pulls free one of the long daggers he prefers. Beside Geralt his brothers nod, waiting.

Finally, Aiden gives a quiet hiss of success, sliding his picks back up into his sleeve. He glances back at the group to ensure their readiness and then pushes it inward. There is a creak, despite the newness of the hinges, which makes Geralt's eye twitch slightly; whatever chance of surprise they have lost will have to be overwhelmed by their numbers and skill.

Dim lamps bathe the path beyond, which is still damp and lichen-filled but less full of standing water. Geralt steps forward, scanning the corridor for drowners or patrolmen, for any reason that there might be a new iron door in an otherwise irrelevant part of the sewers, and it is then that he's able to place the sound in his ear, now that it's not muffled by the door.

Whimpers, as though from a child.

He strides down the hall toward the sound, ignoring the way the corridor branches off, its Elven architecture full of pillars and rounded, sweeping stairways. 

"The exit near the palace is this way," Axel says quietly at his shoulder, pointing in one direction, but Geralt ignores him, shaking his head and following the trail that his ears point him toward.

"Can't you hear it?" he murmurs, cutting a glance toward Eskel, who follows at his heels. His brother shakes his head, but he sees the rest of them straining now, consciously quieting their breath and their steps even further in an attempt to suss out what it is he's sensing. 

It's the stench of blood that gets to them first. 

"Is that—" Aubry looks troubled, scenting the air.

"Human." Junod confirms. He shifts his grip on the massive silver sword he carries. "Not even drowners in these parts."

At the end of this corridor there is another door, of heavy wood this time, and by the time they reach it all of the Witchers can hear the quiet whimpers and crying of children. At least forty tiny, frantic heartbeats await them behind the door.

They don't wait for the finesse of Aiden's picks. At a nod from Geralt, Junod throws himself at the door. The hinges and lock are no match for his bulk, and it gives way under the first assault. Coën and Aubry haul the Bear to his feet again; Geralt pushes past them to get into the room.

What he sees dries his mouth instantly.

There are cages, the type one might keep a dog in, with a metal floor and bars. The cages line the walls; they are stacked on top of one another, two, sometimes three high, and in each one is a child.

They sit in their own filth, some weeping, some still as stone, curled against the chill of the cool underground air. The clothes they wear are ragged and torn. Some have bloodied hands, their nails red from scratching at the locks, lips chapped and faces bruised from hands that have lashed out against them.

Geralt falters a few steps in and hears Lambert swearing in several languages behind him. 

The scent of anger rising from the Witchers that accompany him is quickly overtaken by the sharp stench of fear as they are noticed. 

None of the children have enough voice left in them to scream, but many scramble back into the furthest corners of the cages, whimpering and crying in fear. A few beg hoarsely, not to be taken, to be spared. There is a clink of metal, as Aiden applies his picks to the lock on the nearest cage, rage twisting his expression. 

"Some—" Eskel clears his throat, battling down the same fury. "Some of them need a healer." 

Geralt breathes deeply, eyes scanning the room. There are maybe forty cages, forty children trapped within. A few bear injuries, open wounds. None dare to meet his gaze.

"We can't take them back the way we came," he says. "And we can't carry them on, not yet."

"Geralt," Lambert protests, low and dangerous. Geralt turns to him, swallowing his rage.

"We came for answers," he reminds him. "We have to go forward. We'll come back when it's safe." 

"We can't just—" 

"I'll stay," Coën interrupts calmly, stepping between them before Lambert's hackles can rise any further. "If things go amiss inside, someone must carry word back out of what is here."

Geralt nods, and Lambert stalks away, swearing beneath his breath. 

"If you hear nothing in… four hours," Geralt decides. "Take word to the others."

Coën agrees, giving a slight bow in the odd, formal way of the Griffins, and then moving to speak softly to Aiden. He takes the lock picks from him and sets to work, movements slower and slightly more clumsy than the Cat's, but knowledgeable enough. Geralt can hear him introducing himself to the child within the cage, urging them to be calm.

He tightens his grip on his emotions and gestures for the others to follow. There is another door at the other end of the room, where the blood smell is stronger. His instincts tell him this is not the last of the atrocities they will find tonight.

The room beyond is cold and dark, like a cellar or one of the storage rooms in the depths of Kaer Mohren, where they store freshly butchered meat among slabs of ice hauled from the river. There's no ice here, but the floor is sticky and there is blood in the air, both old and new.

The blood, he realizes just a few steps in, is coming from the bodies hanging by their feet in rows like curtains across the breadth of the room. They are children, throats slit and left to bleed out. Movement in the corner behind a row catches his eye and he signals: the Witchers fan out, surrounding their prey.

What they find is a man, chained to the wall by his ankle. His clothes are stained with blood, and he cringes back against the wall at the sight of them, eyes wide as he takes them in.

Then he speaks, voice hoarse. "Kill me. Before that witch comes back, masters, please."

Geralt frowns, taking the measure of him. His skin hangs, as though he's lost weight recently. Heavy bags darken his eyes, and linen bandages are wrapped heavily around both wrists. 

There are knives nearby, and a butcher's block stained red. 

"What witch?" Eskel growls. "What's this all for?"

"End it," the man says, reaching out to grasp at Geralt's sleeve. "I dream of their faces, of their cries."

"What kind of monster does this shit?" Lamber demands.

"It'd be my girl next, they said," he tells them. "Butchered up for their plates. I don't— I don't know why he's done this. I don't know what for. But I can't live with it. I won't do any more of it, and I can't live with what I have. Please—"

His voice chokes off as Lambert drives a knife into his throat. He falls, sputtering for just a second, before the Witcher finishes the kill.

Geralt closes his eyes, swallowing his frustration.

"He was a witness," Eskel hisses in irritation, cuffing his brother around the ears as Lambert cleans his knife on the man's shirt. 

"He deserved to die and he wanted to die." Lambert kicks at the corpse. "You're welcome."

"Enough," Geralt says, before the rest of the group can jump in and take sides. "It's done. We move on."

The next door opens to a stairwell, with a corridor beyond it. The way is lit by oil lamps, dim light making the blood on the floor glint. At the end of the hall is another set of stairs, beyond which is the scent of a pantry; dried spices and flour.

Geralt eases the door open. It's a startling dichotomy, leaving the horrors below to emerge within a small, well stocked kitchen. There is a fire in the center with a roasting spit, a large potbelly oven, and counters covered in trays that appear to hold the sorts of tiny bite-sized food nobles and royalty favor for social evenings.

All of the food appears to be meat-based, and it does not smell of venison, lamb, beef or poultry. 

"Quietly, until we get answers," he says to the six who follow him. "Or confessions."

It will be the latter at this point, he knows. There are still pieces missing, but enough has come to light to see the whole of the picture clearly.

The corridor beyond the kitchen extends in two directions. Their feet sink into the plush carpet and the hall is well lit; they've entered the palace proper, despite its horrors below. A door to their right opens and he feels more than hears Eskel cast Axii. 

_ "Go to your quarters _ ," he tells the serving girl who had been about to emerge. She turns on her heel. 

In one direction, Geralt can hear the cacophony of a ballroom. There is music, the sound of drums and stringed instruments alongside the click of many heels against marble floor, and chatter. It's quite a lot of people, having a raucous time.

There is a smaller group in the other direction. He can hear voices and laughter, but no music, and there are considerably fewer of them. No more than a dozen, rather than the perhaps hundred that await them if they head east. 

Henselt may be presiding over the ball, but it's prudent to clear the smaller group first. He tips his head in that direction and sets off. 

They encounter a few guards along the way, but they are easily directed elsewhere without raising any alarm. When they reach the lounge within which the small gathering is being held, Geralt grabs Lambert by the arm.

"We're finding answers. Evidence." He levels him a stare, then turns it on the rest of the group. "We talk first."

"Not one of your strengths, Wolf," Eskel teases lightly, but each of them nod. Even Lambert, though he looks pissed about it. They'll talk later— or brawl, more likely— but for now, he's on board with the plan and that's all that Geralt can ask. 

He can tell that they are in the right place from here. His brothers can hear it too, nobles simpering over his majesty, and the night's entertainment. A dozen men are no match for the retinue that walks with Geralt, so he forgoes stealth, and lets himself into the room without fanfare.

It's an odd tableau that greets them.

There is a custom among nobles for men to gather after a meal to drink alcohol and speak business. It looks almost like that, as there are none of the noblemen's wives in attendance. Instead there are scantily dressed whores seated among them, sipping from their drinks and marking them with red painted kisses. 

King Henselt holds court among them, standing near a fireplace with a drink in one hand and a dagger in the other. His eyes are bloodshot from too much wine, but his complexion is smooth and unblemished. It seems almost unnaturally so in the bright light of the fire and the chandelier overhead. He is laughing as they enter at something one of the other men says, gesturing with the slim dagger held in his right hand.

A fine golden chain hangs off of his wrist, the end of which is connected to the throat of a man who does not look like he belongs at all at such a gathering of finely dressed nobles.

Perhaps he might have, once. There is a lute in his hands, but the neck of the instrument has been broken in half and it is held together only by its strings and the careful position of his hands. His clothes are brightly colored, suited for court, but the front of his doublet is stained from the neck down with some kind of black substance. 

Worst of all is his scent and expression: fear, pain, and loathing. His bright eyes are downcast, his brown hair unwashed and his jaw clenched.

"Go on, Bluebell," Henselt says, prodding the dagger at the bard's midriff. "Sing us the one about Lord Gossin. How did it go, Gossin?"

A puffed up man adjacent to them scowls. "Insults my roads."

"Ah, yes." The king nods. "Well, you know it best, Bluebell, you wrote it after all. Give us a taste."

The bard's expression is plaintive. He strums, or tries to strum, a few wretched notes on the broken instrument. Henselt lifts his chin with the dagger.

"Sing." He smiles nastily. "Or I'll pluck out one of those pretty eyes of yours. You don't need those to ply your trade, after all."

The bard flinches back as much as possible on his short leash and moves his fingers over the strings of the lute. He opens his mouth, shaping words, but what comes out isn't noise. It's black bile that spills over his lips, down his chin and doublet.

The room, save Geralt and the Witchers that stand with him, erupts into laughter. The bard chokes on the bile, doubling over as he coughs, and the king slackens the leash, letting him fall to the ground.

Geralt clears his throat.

"Witchers!" Henselt proclaims, either too drunk or too stupid to be afraid. "Masters, come in, join us won't you? We're just having a bit of fun. I'm sure some entertainment could be found for you as well."

He gestures and a few of the women reluctantly approach. They hide the distaste in their expressions passably well, but they're smarter than the king. There's fear in their scents. When none of the Witchers reach for them, they linger near the door. Available, but not in the way. 

"I was just showing off my bard," Henselt goes on, nudging the man on the floor. The bile has stopped and he seems to be catching his breath. "There's a particular trick to getting him to sing, you see."

"We're not interested in the bard," Geralt says, moving forward so that those he brought with him are centered within the room. "Why are there children caged beneath your palace?"

The king waves his hand, the one with the drink in it, and the wine slops messily over the rim of the cup. "The stock? Not as interesting as my toy. Although perhaps you Witchers couldn't use him if you wanted to. I've heard you're all eunuchs."

"They're certainly not of noble blood, sire," one of the noblemen says, eying Geralt up and down. He at least has the sense to look nervous about the incursion of several well armed Witchers into their little party. "Eunuchs or no."

Henselt shrugs. "Well, it's much more entertaining to remind him what he shouldn't be singing, anyway." He kicks the kneeling man, hard enough to send him sprawling. 

"If you've come for work, there is a monster in the castle," he goes on conspiratorially. "A harpy who shares my quarters. Quite a greedy soul." He laughs, and the noblemen laugh too. "In fact I imagine quite a few of my lords have infestations of the same. How much for a harpy contract, hm?"

"Why are there kids in cages, you sick fuck," Lambert demands, shouldering forward, his patience frayed to the end. "Why are you butchering them?"

"You Witchers wouldn't understand," Henselt replies, draining his cup and dropping it off to one side. "With your long lives and your ghastly scars."

He steps up to Geralt, eyes drawing slowly over him. "Do you know what it takes to look this good? To feel this strong? I'm going to sire a son. Euphenia has made sure of that. And I've shared her secrets with my noble lords, so that their sons will be strong as well. All it takes is the sacrifice of a few mongrel stock. Do you want a taste? My cook does marvelous work."

Geralt punches him between the eyes, feels the sharp crack of his nose, and for a moment forgets himself long enough to hope that he's driven the cartilage of his nose straight up into his brain and killed him.

That would be a political nightmare, though. Much more an assassination than the formal execution he deserves. He'd much rather do it in front of the guard at the gates or the ballroom full of important people.

To say the room dissolves into chaos would be cliche, but it's something like the truth. The lords pull their swords, the whores shriek, and a heavy weight collapses against Geralt's chest. 

He looks down to see that it's the bard, eyes wide with panic and pain, Henselt's dagger protruding from the meat of his shoulder in a blow that would have landed in Geralt's chest. He's not wearing any armor, just the doublet, and there's blood seeping into the bright turquoise. 

The dagger would have reflected off of Geralt's armor and if it it hadn't, there's no way the blow would have been fatal, but now there's an innocent man wheezing and injured from trying to  _ save Geralt _ . 

Geralt draws his blade and slashes at the king's knee in a movement that whirls him around, putting his back to the man. His free arm clutches the bard close, bringing him into the tentative safety of the ring of Witchers behind Geralt. 

Said ring rushes outward into motion as he moves, pinning, disarming or killing the noblemen that move against them. Geralt grabs the arm of one of the nearby whores, pulls her down with them as he lowers the bard to the floor.

"Put pressure on this, but don't remove the dagger," he growls. "If he dies, you die."

When he rises, it's to block the downswing of a sword. Their commotion has summoned guards from nearby. If they aren't careful, they will bring the whole palace down upon them. But for now, Geralt isn't thinking of the political ramifications. He's thinking of the children in cages, and the black bile spilling from the bard's mouth, as he cuts down the fools in front of him.

A hand grabs his arm, some time later, and he snarls, moving to strike at the body that wields it. Eskel's face near him throws him off long enough to stop him making a truly terrible mistake. 

"Wolf, it's done." His grip moves to Geralt's wrist, lowering his sword. "It's done." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of graphic section: A room is found full of dead children and a man held captive and blackmailed into butchering them like animals. He begs for death and Lambert kills him before anyone else can weigh in.
> 
> If you'd like to chat, you can find me on tumblr as [hoomhum](hoomhum.tumblr.com) or on twitter as [hoomhumhobbit](twitter.com/hoomhumhobbit)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooob morning friends! I'm going to start doing chapters on Mondays instead of Tuesdays. I don't think anyone will mind? 
> 
> Warnings/notes for this chapter are that I do not know sign language and I have not consulted with any sign language experts for this fic. If there's something egregious about it, please let me know! There really aren't any other warnings. Are we finally getting to the comfort part??? Only you can tell. Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos. You're all amazing!

When dawn breaks, Geralt is sitting in one of the guest suites with his head in his hands. He hasn't bathed, but someone brought a bowl of water to wipe the worst of the blood and sewage away some time ago. He's finally sunken into a light meditation when the sound of a choking cough drags him abruptly back to the surface.

He lurches to his feet and grabs the bard by the clean shift they had dressed him in, hauling him over the side of the bed and holding him there until he can clear his airways. Fuck. No one had considered that he might speak or cry out in his sleep. 

Black bile spatters unpleasantly against the stone, the sound intermixed with the man's coughing and wheezing. It's no more unpleasant than any of the elements Geralt deals with day to day, but adrenaline floods through him nevertheless. The bard could have asphyxiated. Could have died because of their thoughtlessness.

When the man's breathing finally settles, Geralt pulls him back, much more carefully. He can tell that he's awake now, though he seems unwilling to open his eyes. Geralt holds him upright with one arm fisted in his shift and piles pillows with the other, then sits him up against them as gently as possible. It's unsettling how he allows himself to be moved like a ragdoll. 

Before Geralt can speak— before he can so much as think what to say— there is a commotion outside.

"He's in there, isn't he?" A woman demands. "Look, you brute, I've been seeing to Jaskier since he arrived and I _will_ see him now!"

On the other side of the door, Lambert grunts. It's not a word, but a dismissal. They haven't had any issues with the staff so far, but they've for the most part all been afraid of the Witchers that suddenly appeared in the palace. Geralt turns his attention to the bard in the bed.

"Bluebell?" he inquires quietly, watching his expression. Henselt had called him that, but the sound of it provokes a mighty flinch and scowl in the man. "It is Jaskier, then?"

He opens his eyes a crack, and nods.

"Let her in, Lambert," Geralt says, just loud enough to be heard by his brother.

The door opens to admit a woman in servant's garb. A baker, if the flour on her clothes and in her hair is anything to go by. She immediately perches on the edge of the bed beside the bard— beside Jaskier."There you are! One of those Witcher fellows said some fool had gotten himself stabbed by the king and I just knew it was you. No sense of self preservation." She pats his hand. "No offense."

The bard gives her a weak sort of smile, then an exaggerated expression of distaste.

"Use your words," she says chidingly. Her hands come up in front of her in a complicated gesture. Before Geralt can protest, the bard lifts his own hands. Doing so causes a more genuine grimace.

"Stop that," Geralt demands, taking his wrist gently and pressing it down onto the mattress. "You can't use this arm right now. You were stabbed." He looks at the woman. "Does he understand?"

She nods, looking at him for what seems to be the first time. There's fear in her, but no more than the average amount for humans. 

"He can't speak. He hears well enough, fool though he may be," she tells him. Between them, the bard protests, which creates a burble of black bile that leaks from his lips. The woman produces a handkerchief from her apron, which he takes, looking abashed. "See?"

"Hmm," Geralt says.

"I'm Erda," she goes on. She does not offer her hand. "One of the under-bakers. Or I was. I suppose no one really knows if we have jobs anymore, now you've killed the king. That was you, wasn't it? For what he did to those babes?"

Geralt nods.

"Well," Erda says. "If you're hiring, majesty, I've always wanted to be head baker."

Geralt can't fight the instinct to get out of there right now when she says that, because despite the absolutely bizarre and horrifying past few hours, it's the most alarming thing he's ever heard.

He stands abruptly and crosses the room, nearly knocking Lambert over in his haste to get out the door. It's probably for the best that Eskel catches him before he makes it out of the corridor, because he has no idea where he's going, just that he needs to get out. 

Eskel no doubt senses his panic and steers him through the halls to a deserted courtyard, full of plants that are just starting to bud. The sun still hasn't quite made it up over the walls yet, so it's dim and cool, and quiet. Not quite the level of isolation he'd be getting if they had been in Kaer Mohren and he could have taken off up the mountain for the rest of the day, but it will suit.

Besides, he doesn't want to leave the bard alone for too long.

His brother dumps him on a bench and then meanders the paved path nearby, stopping every now and then to investigate the growing things and giving Geralt time to put his head back together.

"Who's the next in line to be king?" Geralt asks finally, after a few minutes of deep breathing. 

Eskel wanders back around to him, kicks at Geralt's ankles until he moves over on the bench enough to make room, and then settles beside him.

"Not sure. We're still rooting out the nobles who were involved with Henselt's plot. Once that's done and the dust has settled they'll be able to figure out who's left for the throne and the council and all that."

"It's not me," Geralt says, meaning it to come out more like a statement than a question and not quite managing to do so if the absolute belly laugh his brother gives is any indication. Geralt glares for a moment, but the sound of pure joy escaping Eskel is enough to make some of the tension that had coiled in his shoulders dissipate.

"It's not you, Wolf. You're not the king," Eskel manages when he's laughed himself out, wiping a tear from his eye. Geralt grunts.

"There's a woman. One of the servants came to see the bard. Seems to think I am." 

"Well," Eskel admits, throwing his arm along the back of the bench and looking considering. "S'pose we are a bit in charge at the moment. Doesn't make it permanent, though, and definitely doesn't make you king."

Geralt slouches down a bit and leans into the other Witcher. Eskel lets him without saying a word about it. There's more to Geralt's mood than he is willing to admit, and he knows that Eskel knows him well enough to realize that. 

"The bard's alright, then?" 

"The herbalist did everything she could. Sewed him up, bound the wound, put a paste on it. Said it'll take a while, but barring infection he should heal." Geralt looks down at his hands. He'd scrubbed them clean of blood in the washbasin, but it's easy to remember just how much of the bard's blood had flowed over them. "He just woke up a little while ago. He's called Jaskier."

"Buttercup?" Eskel snorts. "So of course Henselt called him Bluebell. Wanker. You speak with him?"

Geralt avoids Eskel's gaze.

"Wolf." The sun is just beginning to creep over the top of the building, letting a tiny bit of light into the garden. "Geralt. He tried to save your life. You were sitting with him for hours. Go talk to him."

"He can't talk back," Geralt says finally, giving in to the way Eskel nudges at his shoulder. He glares at his brother. "I won't force my company on him when he can't tell me to fuck off. Or if he's afraid to."

"Ah yes, because human emotions are so hard to parse," Eskel replies snidely. "Especially fear."

They both know he's referring to their first year on the Path, to Geralt's heightened senses and the way he complained when they'd met up at midsummer. _Are all humans so ripe? I can barely breathe the way they stink of fear._

"Come on, we can bring him some food. If he wants to be left alone, we'll leave him. You can go help with the interrogations."

Geralt concedes, because it's a good plan. He's ravenous, and if the bard's afraid then he'll leave and get to disembowel some noblemen who deserve it. That's pretty satisfying. They head to the kitchens together— the proper kitchens, not the small private kitchens with the secret passageway. The remaining staff is a skeleton crew, most of the servants sent home until the depths of Henselt's treachery has been uncovered, promising they'll be summoned when the palace returns to normal.

Some of the servants had been less interested in giving up their domains, including the head cook, who has been preparing large batch meals to feed the Witchers and the remaining guests staying from the ball. He's a no nonsense man, and not the one who had been preparing children for consumption, so they ask him to make up enough food for four and pile it all onto two trays, which they bear back up to the guest suite appointed to Jaskier.

Lambert grabs a hunk of bread off of Eskel's tray as tax, before realizing that some of the food is actually for him and following them inside. Jaskier is still sitting up, alert, when they enter, but there's no sign of the woman from before. Eskel and Lambert take over the desk near the window, squabbling gently in the background, as they often do.

Geralt sets his tray on the bed, relieves it of his own meal, then puts the tray on Jaskier's lap. There's a chunk of bread and a bowl of stew. Simple, hearty fare. Jaskier makes a gesture with one of his hands and gives him a nervous smile.

Behind him, he registers Eskel's sudden silence.

"You didn't say he signs!" Eskel joins them at the bed, fitting himself beside the bard, whose eyes have gone wide.

"I'm Eskel," he says aloud. He makes shapes with his fingers as he says it. "Your name is Jaskier, right?"

Jaskier nods.

"He can hear you," Geralt points out. The bard isn't eating. He seems nervous, more nervous than when it was just Geralt and Erda in the room. His gaze darts between the two Witchers by the bed and Lambert across the room, who is already starting his meal.

"I know," Eskel says. "But now he can see what alphabet I know. There could be different dialects. I'm not an expert on every finger language across the continent."

Geralt nods, pushing the bowl a little closer to Jaskier on the tray. He glances over his shoulder. "Lambert, you're relieved. Go see what Aiden's doing."

"Fuck you, I'm going to take a nap," Lambert says agreeably, giving a little salute with his bowl and heading out the door.

"How are you feeling? Alright? The uh— " Eskel makes a gesture that Geralt would put money on not being actual sign language. It involves screwing up his face, putting his hand near his mouth and wiggling his fingers. "Is that chronic, or…?" 

"Subtle," Geralt gripes.

"I wasn't going for subtle," Eskel shrugs. "Seems pretty important."

The bard looks down at the tray, nervousness radiating off of him. He fidgets, adjusting where the spoon sits beside the bowl. Geralt and Eskel share a glance, but stay silent, and finally Jaskier lifts his arms to reply.

"No," Eskel says gently, as Geralt captures his wrist again. "Spell it out or sign it with one hand. I know it's trouble, but until you're healed a bit more you don't want to aggravate that arm."

He has very pink lips, Jaskier, Geralt thinks as the lower of the feature in question trembles slightly. They haven't been stained by the bile: perhaps he hasn't been forced to speak or sing often enough to do so. Either way, he's a delicately featured man. A fine, upturned nose, and bright blue eyes, framed by brows that are scrunched now in frustration, pain or possibly both. His fingers are also fine boned and well manicured, save for the callouses that Geralt can spot from his lute playing. Geralt watches them as the man begins to sign.

Whatever he says makes Eskel frown.

"He wants to know about his lute." 

"His… lute." There had been an instrument back in the king's receiving room. It had been broken before the skirmish, before its owner had been stabbed. Geralt has no idea the state of it now.

He says as much. "But I can find you a new one, if you like. A better one."

One that isn't broken, for a start. That can't be too hard a bar to clear.

Eyes wide, Jaskier signs a cautious thank you, which Eskel translates for him.

"You tried to save my life," Geralt tells him. "It was foolish, but… kindly done."

"He means thank you," Eskel adds. Geralt doesn't punch him, but he wants to. Between them, the bard nods again, a nervous half-smile on his lips. "We'll find you a lute, but I'm afraid that arm is still on bedrest."

The frown is back, but it's an exaggerated one— like the one Geralt had seen him use with Erda. He must have found ways to communicate without words, adapting where he could. Jaskier looks at Geralt and begins to sign again. It takes much longer than speech would aloud, but Geralt is grateful that they can talk this way.

"Did you really kill the king?" Eskel repeats for him.

"I did. After you were injured, we captured him. Did a full execution with a recitation of his crimes in front of all the lords and ladies he was so good to gather up for us in the ballroom downstairs. Killed him and the rest of the wretched nobles who were party to his deeds," Geralt admits, hands curling into fists.

Jaskier gives a jerky nod. His fingers flash again.

"Good, he says." Eskel is still as he watches Jaskier spell out his words. "He— the king—? Yeah. He ordered this curse." 

Jaskier's good hand settles on his own throat. He's looking at his stew, avoiding their gazes.

"And the one who carried it out," Geralt prompts quietly. "Was that the court sorceress? Was that Euphenia?"

Another nod.

"How long ago was that? How long have you been here?"

The time that it takes Jaskier to spell out his answer does little to cool Geralt's rage. He can't fathom a reason for the type of cruelty he witnessed the previous night. The humiliation. Taking the bard's voice was punishment enough, and perhaps there was a crime that existed that would make it deserved, but what they had seen went beyond that.

"He was invited to winter here." Eskel translates. "He travels as a bard the rest of the year, but he was tricked into coming. Why did they want you?"

Geralt is grateful for Eskel's instincts, that he's asking the same questions racing through Geralt's mind. Jaskier signs something in response that makes Eskel jerk back in astonishment.

"Is that true?"

"What?" Geralt looks between them. Jaskier frowns, nodding his head and wrapping his good arm around himself. "What did he say?"

"Bad songs." Eskel has the fiercest scowl of any of them when he wants to and right now he seems to want to. "Bad fucking songs."

"The lord when we arrived," Geralt says slowly. "He said something about the roads."

Jaskier taps his nose twice and spells something else.

"He says he was a fool. Money. Singing about the shitty condition lords keep their lands is popular with the local folk, hm?" 

The bard shrugs, looking a little embarrassed, but it's clear they've hit the nail on the head. 

"We weren't able to find the sorceress," Eskel tells him. "But we will. She'll pay for this, and for what she's wrought on the children and their families."

"If you can think of anything that might help, tell us," Geralt adds. "Or, I mean. Sign us."

He feels awkward, tongue tied around this man. Without looking, he knows Eskel is smirking at him.

"You should eat something, and rest." Geralt fetches his own bowl of stew in example and starts to eat, focusing on that instead of on the curious looks Jaskier is giving him. Instead of picking up his food, Jaskier begins to sign again. Geralt hasn't yet picked up the alphabet, but the finger pointing in his direction is rather clear.

"He wants to know your name, Wolf. You didn't introduce yourself?"

"Geralt." He clears his throat. "Geralt of Rivia. A Witcher of the Wolf School."

"White Wolf," Eskel says, reading Jaskier's fingers and offering him a grin. "Yeah. He is, isn't he? That's not bad."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! No new warnings for this chapter, just my never ending love for you! We switch POV's next chapter and I am very excited about it. Also please be gentle with my economic bs. It is as made up as everything else in the story.

The next few days teach them several things about Jaskier. Namely that he is not one for lounging in bed, despite his injury and the energy it clearly saps from him. No, he is determined to stick to Geralt's side like a burr. 

Eskel finds it amusing, which is good, because Geralt asks him to stay with Jaskier and translate the man's sign language for those who can't read it, so that he will want for nothing. He then punches Eskel for smirking at him. Yes, want for nothing. Jaskier was stabbed trying to protect Geralt. Is it so unusual for Geralt to want to reward him somehow? To make it up to him?

In any case, Jaskier doesn't seem to want much.

The use of his arm is one thing, but they can't give him that. The herbalist comes to check on his shoulder and tuts at him. She wraps his injury again and immobilizes his arm across his torso. He pouts exaggeratedly at her, but she pats his cheek and laughs. 

So restrained, Jaskier refuses to be bed bound as well. He accompanies Geralt as they oversee the various goings on around the palace, a silent shadow.

There is work to be done, still; routing out the last of the dishonorable men and finding out where the children have come from, are high on that list. An executive decision has also been made to relieve the Kaedwenian royal family of a majority of its coin, goods, and stored food. Those are to be redistributed to the villages that have been affected by the choices of the ill fated king. 

Caravans of Witchers are being organized to deliver goods and children alike, but a venture of this size takes time to plan. Some of the Witchers that had camped outside of Ard Carraigh took off as soon as the king was beheaded. Geralt can't blame them. The rest are here. Instead of finding individual quarters, they've staked out the ballroom like a campground, much to the servants' distress. Jaskier's scent spikes with fear as Geralt moves among them, and he lingers instead near the door, seemingly ready to flee.

Though he is twitchy and nervous among the crowd of Witchers, he is not much better in the makeshift nursery that they have put together in another wing of the palace. His face pales when he sees the many, many children that the Witchers have been placed in charge of.

By now, at least, they have all been cleaned, fed, and watered. There aren't enough little beds in the palace, so they have simply collected mattresses and blankets on the floor and let the little ones choose their bedmates. Some have found friends or siblings among the other captives. Some of the older ones are comforting the younger. A number of servants have been pressed into caring for and entertaining them; Geralt ensured they would be compensated for the time and trouble.

Still, the sight seems to upset the bard. Geralt notices the firm grip he takes on Eskel's arm as Geralt wades into the room. He sits, cross legged, and is beset immediately by some of the younger children, who climb in his lap and pull at his hair. 

Perhaps later, Geralt will ask Jaskier why the children upset him, but for now he simply sits with them and engages quietly. 

A number of the youngest and even a few of the older children don't know the name of their village or where they come from. It's a test of patience to gently wind conversations around any information they may know that could help locate their homes.

"When you stand outside your house, can you see mountains?" he asks the little girl braiding his hair. She nods her head, curls bouncing. "Are they close, or far away?"

The questions go on. Is there a river nearby? A lake? What does her father do? Do any non-humans live in her village? Does she know how many days it took to get here?

That last question makes her face screw up and she runs away, diving for an older child and a blanket. Geralt sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. It catches in the messy braid, which he untangles with a rough hand.

"Come, Wolf," Eskel calls, from his spot near the door. The bard has sunken down to the floor and is sitting against the wall, radiating exhaustion. "The Cats will come by later and entertain them, see if they can't get any more." 

Geralt concedes, making a mental note to tell the scribe later what he has learned. He reaches Jaskier and offers him a hand up. 

The bard's eyes go very wide and he scrambles to his feet without assistance, brushing off the seat of his pants with his good hand and avoiding Geralt's gaze. Geralt forces down the faint feeling of offense at that-- Eskel is good enough to cling to, but he isn't?-- and leads the way out.

The palace has proper dungeons, but they aren't using them. Too much can happen in the dark and the shadows. Instead the Witchers have confined all of the ball guests and nobility in guest suites and are conducting their interrogations, trials, and executions in the throne room. 

It seems only appropriate and the floor there is stone. Easy enough to scrub.

There are three noblemen awaiting judgment when they arrive. Geralt nods to the Bears that are holding them steady, looks over Aiden who is serving as scribe for the moment, and nods to Letho who appears to be the axeman. A small group of other Witchers are taking turns playing the role of interrogators, but they fall silent as Geralt enters the room, trailed by Eskel and Jaskier.

To everyone's surprise, it is one of the noblemen that speaks first, lunging at Jaskier despite the grip the Bear Witcher has on his arms. 

"You! If they keep this up, you'll never sing again, you cunt! Is that what you want?" It's part threat and part plea, like the bard has any power in staying Letho's steel once a decision has been made. 

Jaskier flinches back at the words, hitting the wall with a thud. His hand scrambles for the door and he throws it open again, fleeing on stumbling legs. 

"Let him go," Geralt says, when Eskel moves as though to follow him. He'd caught the terrified glance Jaskier had thrown at the gathering of Witchers; the man probably wouldn't appreciate being cornered by one. He turns his gaze to the lord who had spoken. "Your name?"

"Lord Durvin of Tenred," the man says, clearly attempting some kind of growl. It's laughable in the face of those who surround him.

"Lord Durvin of Tenred," Geralt repeats. "Were you aware of the children kept beneath the palace?"

"No," the lord says. "I wasn't bloody aware. And even if I was, it's the king's right to do what he likes, he—"

Geralt strikes his head from his body with a clean, powerful stroke of his sword before he can finish that sentence. The stench of the lie was obvious.

"Was my turn," Letho grunts, kicking the head almost plaintively.

Geralt claps his shoulder. "In this shit hole, there's plenty more where that came from. Aiden, you took his name down?"

"Yeah. We've been sending out riders to collect any other guilty parties at the lords' estates."

"Good," Geralt nods. "Remind them all not to hand out death sentences indiscriminately. Complicity for fear of their lives or livelihoods is different from explicit cooperation."

When he turns back to the door, Eskel is looking at him with a raised brow. 

"You're one to talk of lenience, after that show." 

Geralt wipes his sword on the body. It'll need a proper cleaning later, which is nice. A good, repetitive task; something familiar in all this oddness.

"You heard what he said to the bard," he says quietly. "There's more to this curse than we know. More than he's said."

"Something unpleasant," Eskel agrees. "That he doesn't want us to know."

"Then we won't speak of it." Geralt stands again. "Let's see how they're doing in the treasury." 

~

It's a mix of Cranes and Manticores who are working to sort and empty the treasury; an incredible undertaking. Heartening because they will be able to give money to the towns and villages that have been robbed of their children, the places that have been scraping by on the barest amount of gold, those that can't afford Witchers but need them. Sickening, because no one, not a single Witcher that has come with them can fathom actually needing this much gold.

No one has ever seen this much in one place at one time.

"It'll be useless if they don't have goods to buy with it," Eskel had pointed out, early in this phase of Geralt's plan. 

Taking that into consideration, they don't just reduce the size of the coffers, but storm through the palace and the king's holdings for other goods. They seize crafting supplies, leather and livestock, and food that can be packed away and will last. These they can give to tradesmen, and craft people, and innkeepers; everyone will have coin to spend on it now.

That is, at least, the plan. Geralt knows he is no expert. He doesn't believe it will do harm to take away resources from the throne and whoever sits on it when they finally depart. They'll earn it back in taxes soon enough. But a boost to those who have had their throats stepped upon and a good portion of the upcoming generation decimated will be appreciated.

The Witchers themselves are taking a cut as well, of course, though what that will amount to hasn't been decided yet. Geralt is leaning towards a price per head in the end, once they've tallied the number of people they've had to kill for the king's monstrous plot. It'll be a nice enough sum for those who've stayed on to help with the clean up.

They stay and help sort the money and goods that have been collected up for a few hours, and when they go to leave there is a broad, familiar figure waiting for them in the hall. "Vesemir," Geralt greets, inclining his head.

"Wolf." Vesemir's arms are folded over his chest, his expression guarded. "This isn't what we do."

"Isn't it?" Geralt's fingers flex. He's more confident in fight's that can be won with his sword. "Were they not monsters? It's our job to destroy the things that men can't destroy themselves."

"And were they incapable? Could they not stop this themselves?"

"They could not." He lifts his chin. "You've taught us to die before letting a monster return to a village and destroy a single child. There were forty caged below the palace, waiting to be butchered. These men needed us."

For a long, breathless moment, Geralt stares down the older Witcher, feeling like no more than a child again himself. Certain that he's about to be told off for disobeying. Instead, Vesemir nods.

"It's not the conventional Path, Wolf," he says. "But I'm convinced it was the right one. There will be others who need convincing too. Keep a sharp tongue in that head of yours and we'll show them the way."

Beside him, Geralt hears Eskel's breath of relief. He hadn't realized the other Witcher was wound just as tightly as he was. He lets out a breath of his own and nods, grateful for the approval of the eldest Wolf.

"Now," Vesemir says. "Tell me how I can be useful."

Vesemir is one of the keenest minds among them, so they ask him to consolidate the information taken from all of the scribes and see what they've missed, be it information from the nobles or from the children. He's able to suggest a few potential origins for some of the missing children when they meet again for supper later that day.

"There could be much that the children don't know they know," he says, sharing a glance with Eskel that immediately puts Geralt on high alert. "You know who could help with this…"

"No," Geralt says immediately. "I'm not calling Yen."

"She could help locate the children's homes," Eskel points out, digging around in his stew for a piece of meat. The cooks have been doing it a little more well done than the Witchers prefer, but apparently that's something to do with safety for human consumption. "And, she might have some leads for that bard of yours."

"You have a bard?" Vesemir asks, brow raised.

"No," Geralt says, immediately protesting the possessive at the same time Eskel says, amused, "Yes."

They tell him the story of how Jaskier came to be under their protection and the predicament he seems to be in. Vesemir's grey brows climb higher and higher on his face as he listens, and he downs the stein of ale he's been sipping once they finish.

"Why would a cursed bard put his body between you and a blade?" he asks pensively. 

"Dunno," Eskel admits. "Those who know him say he's a bit of a fool. Could be just that."

"Could be something more," Vesemir says.

"Hm," Geralt agrees, because he's thought the same, privately and it worries at him. He doesn't think that Jaskier would probably welcome the prodding of another mage, which is another strike against calling for Yen, even if it could result in some answers.

"And you haven't gotten an answer out of him?" Vesemir presses.

Geralt shakes his head. "He's skittish. Four months of living hell will do that to a man."

Vesemir hums in acknowledgment. "Well, showing him we mean no harm will do for a start."

They meet Lambert and Aiden in the hall to Jaskier's rooms, carrying something between them. 

"Get the door, would you? Found this, thought your bard might like it," Lambert says with a grin.

Geralt wants to protest the possessive use, but is distracted by what they hold. It's a thin wooden box, approximately four feet in length and with hinges on the long side. They carry it delicately, as though something precious is inside.

Eskel gets the door, and Lambert and Aiden carry their precious cargo inside and set it on the bed. Lambert opens the box with a triumphant flourish. 

"A clavichord," Vesemir says, clearly impressed. "Haven't seen one of those in some time."

"It's not a lute," Geralt grumbles. 

"No. It's better," Eskel points out, pressing down on one of the white keys gently. A note rings out over the four of them. "He'd go mad trying to play the lute with his arm the way it is. He can at least tinker away at this." 

Geralt acknowledges that he has a point, then looks around. Speaking of… he'd been expecting to find Jaskier here. 

"Where is he?"

"Thought he was with you," Lambert shrugs. "Not my bard."

Geralt decidedly doesn't panic, but he does glare at his brother and storm from the room. The palace is massive and there are a hundred places that Jaskier could be. They aren't letting anyone out at this point, which thankfully limits his search to some degree. He pauses for a moment in the hall, then heads toward the main kitchens.

Jaskier doesn't seem to have too many friends and is nervous of the Witchers, but he likes Erda the under-baker. Hopefully she's around and will know where he might like to hide. 

Eskel is on his heels as he strides into the kitchens and to the flour coated counters. Erda is one of the few servants who have stayed to keep things running and she looks up at them without surprise when they enter.

"He's in the pantry," she says, without pausing in her movement as she kneads a large ball of dough. "Got right huffy when I wouldn't let him help."

She nods them in the right direction, to the dry goods pantry. It's a narrow space, not wide enough to fit two Witchers shoulder to shoulder at once, even if it is deep. Geralt hesitates.

"You should go," he says to Eskel. "You can understand him."

He doesn't like saying it, doesn't like admitting that this is something he can't do. It feels like a failure. He should be the one protecting Jaskier, like Jaskier tried to protect him, and he can't do it. Still, if there is anyone he could pick for the job in his stead, it would always be Eskel and that's something of a consolation.

Eskel nods and enters the pantry, shuffling all the way to the back, and Geralt folds his arms over his chest and waits. 

A few minutes later, Eskel emerges with a sheepish looking bard on his heels. Jaskier has bags of exhaustion under his eyes and his arm is no longer immobilized. He's wearing a different shirt— a stained tunic. 

"He panicked," Eskel says. "Had to change. He says he'll let us do his arm back up again, though."

Geralt nods, grateful for that at least. 

"Lambert found something that you'll like," he says. "Put it in your quarters."

Jaskier quirks his head in question and glances back at the pantry. It fills Geralt's heart with rage to realize what he's asking.

"No. You— you don't have to stay down here if you don't want to. The room you were in last night is yours, as long as you want it. We could— are there things you want to bring up?" He pauses, not wanting to steal the choice away from him. "You don't have to."

"Yes he does," Erda calls, clearly eavesdropping from the counter. "Go sleep in a bed and give me back my shelves, Jaskier." 

A light blush graces Jaskier's cheeks at that, and he throws her a sign that Geralt recognizes as being very rude, before ducking back into the pantry. When he returns it's with an armful of clothes, which Eskel offers to take for him. Jaskier shakes his head. 

Lambert and Aiden have lost interest by the time they return to the guest suite, but Vesemir awaits them, sitting at the desk and going over some of his notes. 

"Vesemir, Jaskier," Geralt says, gesturing to him. Vesemir stays seated, but turns and gives Jaskier a nod. "Jaskier, Vesemir. He… raised us, as much as anyone did."

Jaskier's heartbeat had skyrocketed at the sight of a stranger in his quarters, but the introduction calms it some. He returns Vesemir's nod cautiously, before catching sight of the instrument waiting on the bed. In his excitement he makes some kind of squeak or exclamation, which turns into bile. He wipes it on his sleeve thoughtlessly, rushing to the bed.

"Easy, hold on," Eskel says, intercepting him. "Your arm." 

Jaskier obediently wraps his arm around his own torso, apparently unbothered by that restriction. He ducks beneath Eskel's raised hands to press a finger to the keys, expression lighting up as they ring out. He plays an aborted scale, right hand moving delicately and deliberately to coax notes from the instrument, before turning to Eskel and Geralt with a pure grin.

He begins to sign.

"He wants to know which one is Lambert," Eskel translates with a chuckle. "I think he likes it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Don't worry, Geralt is definitely gonna get outvoted regarding a certain beloved sorceress.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's bard time!!!
> 
> And as such, we will be encountering some uhhh PTSD symptoms following Jaskier's awful season as a prisoner of Henselt's court. Nothing that hasn't already been tagged, to my knowledge, aside from some general "he didn't think he'd live through this" vibes a couple of times. No flashbacks or anything. Let me know if I need to add a tag! I hope you like this one!
> 
> Also, welcome to all the new people who just started reading last week! It's a pleasure to have you!

The clavichord is beautiful. 

To be perfectly honest, it could have been a complete piece of crap and Jaskier still would have loved it, because for the first time in months he's able to to make music. Proper music, not just drumming his fingers or trying to hold together his lute. It's enough to make him well up with tears. Enough to make him forget that there are three Witchers in the room, three men that could break him like a twig.

He's had some time to warm up to Geralt and Eskel. The latter is something of a lifeline, his means of communicating with the rest of the Witcher inundated palace. Despite the jagged scars that cross his face, his expression and his hands are always gentle and he's never raised his voice at Jaskier.

Then there's Geralt: the White Wolf.

What can he say about the White Wolf?

Perhaps once he's gotten a little distance from this whole mess, he'll request the tale of the Wolf's arrival and the king's defeat from a perspective that isn't his own. Bleeding out on the floor does not quite give one the details necessary for the ballad that this tale is begging to be transformed into.

He hadn't expected to live. Hadn't expected to be saved. And now… well.

In the past two days he's been given more comforts than he's been allowed in months. That's actual comforts, not just a cessation of the daily tortures and embarrassments he's endured. A soft bed to lay in. A hearth to warm his room. Regular meals. Company. Conversation. And now this, an instrument that works, intended just for his own amusement.

He plays a little ditty, fingers scampering over the keys. It takes effort not to hum along. He learned the clavichord as a boy, and used it to compose fairly often at Oxenfurt. He's better, of course, with both hands, but he can play a nice melody with one hand even if it's not what it could be.

Eskel is laying on the bed beside him, watching him play. Geralt has taken up his now customary spot in the chair beside the bed on the other side. His hands are on his knees, eyes closed in what Jaskier thinks is some kind of meditation. Vesemir, the newest of the Wolves Jaskier has met, sits at the desk, his quill scratching intermittently at parchment. 

It's surprisingly pleasant, even if he's not entirely able to relax.

"Boy's had some training," Vesemir says, when Jaskier takes a break to stretch his fingers. "It's good. Nice to have some music besides Eskel sawing at that fiddle."

Jaskier lights up, turning to his companion on the bed, but Eskel waves him off.

"I'm awful. Self taught."

"Mostly squeaks," Geralt agrees, without opening his eyes.

"Where'd you study?" Eskel has one arm tucked beneath his head, like he'd be napping if it weren't for the amber eyes trained on Jaskier and his hands. "Vesemir's right, you're good."

He spells out half of "Oxenfurt", trusting the man to infer the rest, then starts on "liberal arts" and "summa cum laude". It's a blessing that Eskel is quick to pick up what he means and relays it to the others, who are clearly listening. 

"Studied the seven liberal arts at Oxenfurt, graduated summa cum laude, hm?" the Witcher says thoughtfully. "Hidden depths, little bard."

This, coming from a Witcher who can apparently fiddle. He shrugs and delicately plucks Eskel's hand up from where it's been resting on his stomach. He places his fingers on the keys of the clavichord and puppets them. These keys for two beats. Then these for two beats. Then these.

He repeats the motion before pulling away, nodding at Eskel to repeat what he'd been shown and is delighted when the Witcher plays it back perfectly. He twirls his finger to indicate repeating it, then sets to playing the melody on top of it. Eskel has trouble keeping steady time, so he taps his toe in the air.

"Just keep repeating that?" Eskel asks. Jaskier nods. 

"He'll make a musician out of you yet," Vesemir says. The tone is teasing, and it makes the knot in Jaskier's heart ease, just a bit. For mutants said to be monsters, they are very gentle with one another. 

Of course it would stand that the peace is immediately interrupted.

"Geralt?" A woman's voice emanates from his right, refined and posh. "Hello? Are you there?"

Geralt pulls a small box from one of his pockets and begins to speak into it, but Jaskier doesn't quite hear what he says. He's too busy trying to get out from under the clavichord and off of the bed. The instrument is perched on both his and Eskel's laps and the Witcher isn't helping, hasn't clocked his panic yet, and Jaskier doesn't want to hurt the instrument or try to wiggle out the other way and toward the voice of what _must_ be a sorceress.

Sorceresses mean trouble.

"Jaskier, it's okay," Eskel says quietly beside him. "No one will hurt you."

Geralt crosses the room, moving away from them, and Vesemir comes over to lift the clavichord away at the same time, setting it gently at the foot of the bed.

Jaskier scrambles clumsily over top of Eskel to get away from Geralt and the woman's voice, which is a foolish plan with one arm. Luckily the man catches him easily and lifts him to his feet. He keeps a hand on Jaskier's good shoulder, which surprisingly does not increase the feeling of wanting to crawl out of his skin, and gets to his own feet. 

"Let's go for a walk," he says, voice soft but insistent. "You're fine. Come on."

The hand shifts to his elbow as Jaskier allows Eskel to steer him out of the room. If he'd said no, Eskel could have made him, physically. He's strong enough. But given the gentle way he and Geralt have been speaking to him, Jaskier thinks that maybe he wouldn't. 

Anyway, he doesn't say no, and lets Eskel lead him.

They arrive at a little used courtyard, full of plants. Jaskier had been half expecting the kitchens. Several times in the past season when he's been able to escape the king's attention he's been able to make himself useful there, kneading bread until the trembling stops or his adrenaline gives out and Erda ushers him into the pantry where the servants made up a covert pallet for him. This is nice, though. There's fresh air and no one else around, nothing expected from him.

"Yennefer's an old friend of Geralt's," Eskel says without prompting. He sprawls on one of the benches and directs his words upwards, to the darkened sky. Jaskier sits beside him, not trusting his unsteady feet on the paths in the darkness. "Well. It's more complicated than friendship. He never actually said how they met. Saved each others' lives, I think. Fucked, definitely, for a while. Broke up. Still owe each other… something."

Jaskier says nothing. Well, hah. He doesn't try to communicate anything, just fiddles with the little frayed patch on the knee of his trousers and looks up at the stars. 

"She's not like the sorceress that cursed you, though. Geralt trusts her."

Jaskier looks over at him, brow raised. 

"Alright, yes. I trust her too. There are plenty of times she could've left his ass in the dust and she didn't. She's got a whole… thing. But she's nothing like the shit that was festering here."

Jaskier blows out a breath and makes an exaggerated face of distaste. It's the fastest way to communicate his feelings on the matter. His fear, distrust, and discomfort.

"Geralt won't let anything else happen to you, bard. Not after what you did. And neither will I." 

He lets the exaggerated expression fade into contemplation and sighs out again, then lifts his hand to sign in question. _What does she want?_

"I'm not a mind reader," Eskel says, a little bit of teasing in his tone. "But I imagine she's gotten wind of what's happened here. She's always been politically savvy. If he's smart, Geralt will ask for her help."

_Help?_

"If you want to track a sorceress, you use a sorceress," the Witcher says bluntly. "That'd be the main thing. She's also not a bad healer. Could probably fix you right up if you let her. Your shoulder, at least. Maybe a head start on your voice."

Jaskier bites his tongue to stop the instinctive refusal from coming out and turning to bile. The idea of allowing someone else to do magic on him is so terrifying it makes his head spin. He doesn't realize his hand is shaking until Eskel takes hold of it.

"There are other things we could use her help with, though. Getting the kids home would be a good one." 

Jaskier tenses, automatically squeezing the hand holding his own. Thinking of the children makes him feel sick with horror as well. It's another of those things that might make a good song with time and distance, but right now all he can think of is the king forcing open his jaw and one of his laughing lords putting a piece of meat on his tongue. 

He'd gagged and spat it out as soon as he was able, only to be knocked around for "wasting" such a precious commodity. 

Now, he feels green around the gills just thinking of the moment. Is it possible to give up eating meat for the rest of one's life? Without his voice, he's not sure what the rest of his life looks like, anyway. Where will he go? Oxenfurt, to be jeered at? Lettenhove? His parents might have welcomed him back if he had given up balladeering by choice, but now he's just a failure and a burden on them. 

Fuck.

He's shaking quite badly now, and Eskel just pulls him into a one armed embrace, as though he's a child, tucking Jaskier's head beneath his chin.

"You needn't see her if you don't want to. Geralt won't insist," he says, not having followed along Jaskier's spiral of despair at all. It's a nice thing to say though. "If she agrees to come. She may not."

"She has." 

Jaskier startles badly, and would have landed himself on the ground, if it weren't for Eskel's firm grip on his shirt. Geralt is standing near the entrance to the courtyard, his long white hair glinting in the light of the moon. 

"When?" Eskel asks, before Jaskier has even fully resettled himself.

"Tomorrow, midmorning. She has affairs to see to first." Geralt crosses to them and— bafflingly— kneels on the flagstone in front of Jaskier. "She will not hurt you. I would… I would see you healed, if possible. But not against your will. Vesemir could stay with you, or Lambert."

This isn't the first time one of these Wolves has tried to make themselves small in front of him. Jaskier hates that he must seem such a fragile, easily startled thing that it's necessary. Hates that it works so well, to see them humbling themselves before him. All because they think he tried to save the White Wolf's life.

He can't continue like this, benefiting from their misinformation. He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair, before ensuring he has Eskel's attention and beginning to sign. He has to spell out much of what he wants to say, the limited vocabulary Erda taught him and restriction to one hand making it a much more arduous process.

"He says he didn't mean to save you," Eskel says slowly. "It was spite. He let himself be stabbed to spite the king."

There's a pause, which seems to stretch for ages as Jaskier waits for their judgments. He imagines he's lost their favor with that admission. It was no bold, heroic move on his part to save Geralt's life. He'd just been driven by a desire to fuck up what Henselt was attempting to do, especially if it meant ruining the king's latest plaything.

It seems his admission has stricken Geralt speechless for the time being. Beside Jaskier, though, Eskel chuckles.

"Well that answers that," he says, patting Jaskier's knee. "Yen is going to love you, little bard."

Jaskier looks at Geralt again, whose shock has faded into a somewhat muted imitation of one of his own expressions of exaggerated distaste. It's startling to see, when Geralt so far has been difficult to read. Eskel sees it too, and just laughs louder. 

"He's afraid you'll gang up on him," he tells Jaskier conspiratorially. He pats Jaskier's knee again. "Which you absolutely should do, if you choose to meet her. Wolf deserves to get his ass handed to him every once in a while."

Geralt sighs and shakes his head. 

"Thanks for your support, Eskel." He climbs to his feet and offers Jaskier a hand. Before Jaskier can accept it, Geralt seems to think better of it and awkwardly tucks both hands behind his back. The movement is so quick that Jaskier almost misses it. "You should be in bed, resting. It's late. We'll walk you up."

Though Jaskier has never sensed ill intent from either of the Wolves before him and they seem intent on making this sorceress' visit as painless as possible for him, there's still a question that nags at Jaskier. 

They know now that there's nothing inherently tying him to them. They know he didn't do what he did to earn favor, or out of a sense of duty, or any of that. That he's nothing special. So why are they being so kind to him? Or at the very least, paying him so much attention? 

There are very crude, terrible tales of Witchers collecting innocents as part of their payment, taking maidens as their spoils after a hunt, and he knows better after just a few days of watching these men than to take those seriously, but if it's not that then what is it?

He taps Eskel on the shoulder before the man can stand and then slowly, hesitatingly signs: _Am I free?_

"Yes," Eskel says immediately, without stopping to translate. There's a little bit of anger in his face, a little bit of horror. "Fuck— we're not… Yes, Jaskier. You're not a prisoner."

Geralt's face has turned to stone.

"We can't protect you, if you choose to leave. We've no guarantee the mage who inflicted this curse will not harm you again." His voice is tight. "But if you choose to go, you will be provisioned and compensated."

 _You owe me no debt._ Jaskier signs laboriously. He doesn't want to go, not in a million years. But this uncertainty gnaws at him. _You watch over me_ . _Why?_

Eskel translates for him this time, and once he has he gives Jaskier a lopsided smile.

"Witchers aren't just monster hunters, you know. We're curse-breakers too. All part of the job." 

Geralt still looks guarded, but he nods, agreeing with Eskel's words. Jaskier accepts that reasoning. It must rankle for them that the mage who helped with these atrocities has escaped, and helping him with his curse will sooth some of that frustration. If it means more of the same— good food, good company, comforts he's not seen in some time— he will accept it without complaint.

 _Thank you_ , he signs. Then he holds out a hand in silent request for Geralt to help him up. He's gratified when a little of the Witcher's tension slips away as their hands meet and he hauls Jaskier to his feet.

~

After breakfast, Lambert comes to Jaskier's room and takes over bard-sitting duty. None of the Witchers are calling it that to his face, but that's what Jaskier has come to think of it as. Geralt and Eskel had spent the night in a pile near the hearth, close by enough to provide security but with enough distance to stop him from panicking. Vesemir had apparently claimed quarters of his own, wishing them all a good night on his way to them when they'd walked back from the courtyard the previous night. But now Lambert has come to relieve Geralt and Eskel, letting them take over whatever other duties they have in cleaning up the aftermath of the Witcher invasion.

He doesn't seem resentful about the assignment though, lounging in the chair that Geralt usually sits in. He kicks it up on its back legs, feet on the frame of the bed, and nods at the clavichord.

"You like it, then?"

Jaskier nods, feeling suddenly conscious of his inability to communicate with the man keeping him company. Nevertheless, he plays a little refrain and is pleased at the way Lambert lights up.

"Fuck yeah," the Witcher says. "I wasn't sure— Geralt said find a lute, and I didn't see one. The one you had was smashed to bleeding bits. Sorry about that, but I thought maybe this would be okay in the meantime, ya know?"

Are all of the Wolf Witchers actually puppies? Jaskier muffles a chuckle and gives him a thumbs up to indicate the instrument is more than okay. He feels a little silly about the gesture, but Lambert just leans back again, looking pleased with himself. 

For the next hour or so, they don't try to speak any further. Lambert looks for all intents and purposes to be napping while Jaskier plays about on the clavichord, testing out the range of his abilities with one hand and even composing a bit. It's difficult to do any serious composition work without his voice or ability to write things down. Still, it's nice to get some of the notes out of his head and into the air.

The door opens suddenly to reveal a Witcher that Jaskier has not been introduced to. He tenses, heart in his throat, but Lambert just cracks an eye open lazily at first and gestures the other man inside. Then he seems to notice Jaskier's tension.

"Oh. This is Aiden. He's a Cat, but he's not all bad." He thunks his chair back down onto all four legs and draws, of all things, a knife from his belt. Jaskier swallows, hard. Lambert flips the knife until he's holding it by the blade, offering the grip to Jaskier. "You want him out, toss this at him. He'll respect that and if he doesn't, I'll throw him out, okay?"

Jaskier takes the dagger, startled, but grateful for the odd brand of thoughtfulness.

"Asking would also do the trick," Aiden says, still from across the room, amusement dancing in his eyes. "A rousing endorsement of my nature, Lambert, much appreciated."

Lambert flips him off.

"I thought you both might like to know Yennefer has arrived." Aiden's voice is smooth and faintly accented. He's much less bulky than the Wolves that have been watching over Jaskier so far, and as Lambert pointed out, the medallion that hangs around his neck is of a fierce cat. "She's working with the children now."

"We're good here, then," Lambert says firmly. A little too firmly. Like he doesn't want to see this sorceress either. Jaskier raises a brow at him.

"Lambert's afraid of Yen," Aiden confides. He moves to lean against the hearth, warming his hands and keeping a respectful difference from Jaskier. Lambert sputters.

"I'm not afraid." He scrunches up his face. "I was just an idiot the first time we met and no one has ever let me live it down, least of all her."

Oh, this is not nearly enough details, Jaskier thinks with a hint of glee. He looks pleadingly at Aiden, but he needn't have bothered as the Cat is already launching into the story with relish.

"He got into town and there was a contract for an arachas," he says. "You know what an arachas is? Sort of a huge venomous angry bug thing— and he said to the mayor— tell him what you said to the mayor…"

"I asked what good their mage was, if they couldn't handle it," Lambert moans into his hands.

"He asked what good their mage was if they couldn't handle it!" Aiden repeats with a shout of glee. "And of course she was standing right there, heard everything, not that he realized it. He goes hunting, finds the beast beheaded, and comes back to see her dropping its head on the mayor's doorstep."

Jaskier looks between them, signing _why_ despite the fact that neither know the language. The question is apparently clear enough in his face though.

"Apparently she leaves contracts for Witchers," Lambert says. "There aren't always enough to keep our pockets full, ya know— Geralt must've said something about it. So as long as the threat isn't urgent, she leaves the beasts be until one of us can come through and collect the coin for it." 

"Until this one puts his foot in it," Aiden concludes with a snort. "And instead of, what, apologizing? Sticking around to introduce himself? He tucks tail and runs." 

"I didn't run," Lambert grumbles from behind his hands. "I just didn't have any reason to stick around." 

"And you're avoiding her now because…"

"I'm not avoiding her, it's my job to guard the bard!"

"Mmhmm," Aiden says, tossing Jaskier a wink. Jaskier can't help giggling at that. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and he doesn't even care that his laugh creates bile. He mops it up with a handkerchief.

"If _I_ throw a knife at you will you leave?" Lambert grouches, but there's no heat in his words.

"Gods, no," Aiden replies. "That's practically foreplay coming from you." 

The tips of Lambert's ears are flushed pink. Jaskier is fairly certain he wouldn't have been able to tell, save for how close they are sitting. It makes him laugh even harder, and he has to clutch the handkerchief to his mouth. 

"In any case, if you _were_ avoiding her, this would be the place to do it. Geralt apparently even said please when he asked her not to come here," Aiden goes on. He and Lambert share a look to signify the importance of this and even Jaskier is a little impressed.

He wants to ask more about Yennefer, but he has no way to do so, so he frowns down at the keys in his lap and taps sullenly at a few different notes. It is very much a surprise, then, when a sheaf of parchment floats down on top of his hand. He realizes that Aiden is standing there beside Lambert with a quill, offering it to him.

"What's on your mind, then?" he asks, gesturing again with the quill when Jaskier doesn't immediately take it. 

There's not really any good way to explain why this won't work without showing them, so he twists to place the parchment on the bedside table with the inkwell and takes the quill in hand. He tells his hand to write the question in his mind, and his hand in turn produces a line of absolute gibberish. 

He frowns at it and then with as much exaggerated movement as possible, draws a question mark. That at least, is mostly legible. He waves at Aiden to take the parchment.

"Ah," the man says, frowning. "Well, unless you're writing in some language I don't know—" At that point, Lambert sits up abruptly and snatches the parchment away to peer at it himself. "--Your ability to write has been taken as well. That's a bitch of a curse, bard."

Jaskier huffs and slumps back against his pillows.

"Jibberish," Lambert confirms. "Save the question mark. We can work with that. You've got a question, we just have to figure out what it is."

"Is it about a person?" Aiden asks.

Jaskier nods. Lambert hums.

"A Witcher?"

He shakes his head.

"Yennefer?"

Is he that obvious? Jaskier nods again, feeling somewhat unsettled for being seen so easily.

"Her, or what she's doing here?" Aiden asks, flashing one and then two fingers to indicate how Jaskier can show his choice. Jaskier considers. He's not sure what they can tell him about the woman herself. After a moment he flashes two fingers. 

"What she could do for you?"

Jaskier immediately shakes his head. He knows the scope of that. 

"The children, then?" Aiden straightens up as Jaskier confirms his suspicions. "So. You know some of the children don't know where their homes are. Makes it a little difficult to get them back there, hm?"

Jaskier settles in. Aiden has the instincts of a bard. He's a natural storyteller. 

"Well, they still _know_ things about their homes, they just don't know what's important or how to convey those details to adults. They're pretty traumatized little tykes." 

Jaskier remembers Geralt sitting in the middle of a hall, asking in a persistently gentle voice about mountains and bodies of water. He'd been fairly distracted, trying to talk himself down from a panic attack, plagued by thoughts of the process from children to pies. 

"Well, some mages have the ability to read thoughts and memories," Aiden goes on, as though he hasn't paused. "She'll be able to parse the wheat from the chaff and give us the information we need to know."

That's good, Jaskier thinks. Good that she'll— hold on, reading _minds?_ He scrambles upright again and tries automatically to make an 'x' with his arms, only to be immediately stopped by the fact that one arm is, of course, bound to his torso. So he waves the other back and forth to indicate negation and scrambles backward until he almost falls on his ass out of the bed on the other side.

Much quicker than Jaskier would have expected, Lambert vaults the bed and stops his escape in that direction just by standing there and gently holding him upright.

"She's not gonna read your mind, bard," he says firmly. "Alright? She's not gonna do that to you. She won't get in your head. She won't read your mind. We won't let her. She'd have to get through me, and through Eskel, and through Geralt. It's not gonna happen." 

"And me," Aiden adds, looking troubled at Jaskier's admittedly rather dramatic reaction. 

"And even the Cat," Lambert repeats. "And you've got your knife. Okay? You say no mind reading that means no mind reading."

Jaskier's body has stopped trying to flee without his mind's consent, and he grips the Witcher's forearm tightly. There doesn't seem to be a hint of dishonesty in his face. But he's not sure his ability to judge character has quite recovered from his last spectacular fuck up. 

Still perched on the arm of the chair, Aiden clears his throat.

"There are some," he says carefully, not looking at Lambert or Jaskier. "Who find not having to vocalize things… beneficial. When it comes to troubles." 

He folds the sheaf of parchment containing Jaskier's nonsensical script into thirds, crisp lines clearly intended to keep his hands busy, before setting it on the bedside table. Then he meets Jaskier's gaze. "Perhaps that's worth consideration?"

The whine in the back of Jaskier's throat turns to bile instead of producing sound, and Lambert doesn't look up, grabbing for the abandoned handkerchief and pressing it into Jaskier's hand as he growls, "Aiden get out."

The Witcher's footsteps are silent, but the closing of the door is not.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you one and all for your lovely comments and support. They really help sustain me. You're the best!
> 
> No additional warnings for this one. I hope you like it!

The Cat's words stick with him, even after the panic attack recedes. It's a horrible thing. Lambert is steadfast and quiet, nonjudgmental as Jaskier struggles to regain control over himself. When finally he does, he pushes the Witcher away, needing space and air. Lambert goes, a grim expression on his face, but not radiating any anger toward Jaskier. He'll call it a win.

Jaskier shakes out his arms and stretches his legs, pacing the length of the room. Here the hearth where Geralt and Eskel slept, here the desk beneath the window where Vesemir wrote; here the chair. 

The chair.

The parchment is still sitting on the bedside table closest to the chair. Jaskier thinks briefly of casting it into the fire, but refrains. It will be easier to show it to the other Wolves, rather than relying on Lambert to explain or spelling it out one handed himself.

In a season he'd learned a fair grasp of sign language, but much of it takes both hands. It's infuriating. He crumples the parchment in his hand unintentionally at the thought, and forces himself to smooth it out again and then fold it smaller, to tuck it into his pocket.

His chemise is wet with black bile and disgusting. He doesn't have any that aren't stained with bile, but he does have tunics that are at least dry. He pulls one from the trunk at the foot of the bed and waves at Lambert to turn around. 

The Witcher does so, but with a look that indicates he finds it superfluous. Jaskier insists on his privacy, nevertheless. His back had ached for days after the sorceress inscribed it with her words, words that had robbed him of his own and placed conditions on his voice just to amuse the king. As far as he knows they are still there.

He should show the Witchers. Geralt and Eskel, at least.

The thought of showing the Witchers makes a different type of bile rise in his throat. 

They can't break his curse without all the knowledge.

And yet…

And yet.

He quickly trades his sodden, dirty chemise for a rather unfashionable tunic, which is at least gray to start. His mind circles the issue, frustratingly coming to the same conclusion again and again.

Returning to Lambert's line of sight, he takes the blade he'd been offered earlier and tries to hand it back to the man.

"Keep that one," Lambert says, waving him off. "I have others."

He clearly does, as he's currently using one to whittle with. There are tiny flakes of wood littering the floor and the shape of whatever he's working on isn't quite defined yet, but there's intent behind his actions, that much is obvious.

Grateful, Jaskier nods his thanks and tucks the dagger into his waistband. He then heads for the door.

"Whoa, wait, hold up," Lambert says, quickly intercepting him. "This is the only place Yennefer absolutely won't come. There's no guarantees out there."

Jaskier nods again and continues his course.

"Did you want lunch or something? Because I can go get you food," Lambert says, stepping with him. He's not quite blocking Jaskier. Yet. Jaskier shakes his head. They reach the door at the same time, and then Lambert _is_ blocking him. "If something happens to you, it'll be my fault, okay?"

Mustering all of his confidence and no small amount of flair for the theatrical, Jaskier retrieves his new knife. He points it in Lambert's direction, this time holding it like an actual weapon. He can't speak, and he would very much like to leave this room, thank you.

Lambert gets the idea, though he isn't even a hair intimidated. He snatches the dagger out of Jaskier's hand, moving away from the door in the same instance.

"I take it back," he says. "You can't keep this until you know how to use it. Seven hells, bard, you threaten somebody like that again and they will literally kill you. You fancy being gutted by a Viper? It's an insult to dagger work, they don't stand for that shit."

Jaskier feels a little sheepish about that. He knows he doesn't stand half a chance against any of these men.

"I'll teach you later," Lambert grumbles. "If Geralt doesn't get to it first. Is he who you wanna go see? Him, or another Wolf?"

Jaskier indicates no.

"Aiden?" Lambert guesses hopefully. 

Another no, which earns him a great heaving sigh and a scowl. 

"Of course not. You wanna go see the witch, don't you."

Jaskier pats his shoulder in a conciliatory fashion and steps into the hall.

He hasn't done much walking about the palace without Geralt or Eskel at his shoulder and it is briefly terrifying, until Lambert catches up to him. The Wolf grumbles as they walk, quietly directing Jaskier to the correct hall where the children are camping out. It's their best guess for where Yennefer will be found, given her focus for the day.

They run into Geralt and Eskel first.

"Jaskier," Geralt says, voice a rumble. His gaze narrows at Lambert. "What are you doing out here?"

 _Prisoner?_ Jaskier spells sulkily, aggrieved at being essentially ignored for his guard.

Eskel translates for him before he's even finished spelling. "Jaskier would like to point out that he's not a prisoner, thank you very much."

"Apologies," Geralt murmurs golden gaze turning back to him. "I didn't mean— You surprised me."

Jaskier's first warning that they are about to be interrupted is that all of the Wolves stiffen suddenly. Then he hears the click of heels against the stone floor and clenches his fists to keep from flinching back as an elegantly dressed woman rounds the corner.

"Geralt, would you—" She stops, head tilting with a little smirk as she takes in the sight before her. "Hello, Lambert. Here to check that I can do the job properly?"

Lambert, bless him, folds his arms over his chest. "Yennefer."

"Take Jaskier back to his room," Geralt says, without turning to greet the mage. His expression is steel, his entire body coiled with tension. When Lambert shakes his head, he steps forward, reaching out as though to grab Jaskier by the arm.

Jaskier dodges. 

He steps up to the sorceress, who is quite frankly much more beautiful than he had expected. Definitely more beautiful than Euphenia, who had boasted the best looks in the court. If the circumstances were much different, he probably would have flirted his ass off. As it is now, he's too busy trying not to vomit and couldn't flirt even if he wanted to.

He bows, a proper court bow, then clumsily signs an introduction.

Eskel, thankfully, is paying attention. "My name is Jaskier, Lady Yennefer. I need your help."

Her eyes, bright violet against her skin and dark hair rake over him, and he knows the mess that he appears. Injured and wearing dirty, ill fitting clothes; hair ruffled and over long. 

"My services are not free, bard," she says, voice perfectly even.

Behind him, Geralt sighs. "We'll cover the fee, Yen."

She smiles. It is somehow simultaneously comforting and terrifying.

"Come then, Jaskier. Let's see what I can do for you." She holds out her arm and he takes it in the proper manner, grateful she's made the accommodation for his injury and traded sides. Geralt and Eskel begin to follow, but she stops them with a look. "Just Jaskier."

"Jask?" Eskel asks, brow furrowed.

Jaskier manages to give him an unsteady smile, inclining his head to indicate that he'll be fine.

"We'll muddle through," Yennefer promises. "Though you could send up something to eat, if you're feeling generous. That much reading takes it out of a lady."

The room that she leads him to, just a few halls away from his familiar Wolves, is much more intimately decorated than Jaskier's own. It doesn't feel like a guest suite. Apparently his expression conveys his surprise. Yennefer gives him a small, understanding smile as she sinks onto a low sofa once inside. 

"I brought some of my own things," she admits. "Visiting Geralt, you never know what type of scene you're walking into. I like to have the little luxuries."

Jaskier supposes that's fair. The fact that she wasn't sure if a literal palace would be nice enough is a little suspect, but then again it was a palace that had just been taken over by an army. Maybe she'd assumed they'd gone a little wild with property destruction.

"There's wine," she says, pointing out a pair of carafes near the hearth. "Or water. Whichever you'd like. Forgive me for not getting up. More children needed help than I expected."

He moves to the carafes instinctively— it's been ages since he's had any wine— and then hesitates. Drinking in the witch's den seems like a poor choice. Even the water could be spelled. It's a terrible thought. Geralt wouldn't have let him go if he didn't trust this woman. 

And he trusts Geralt, doesn't he?

Does he?

Why should he?

He pours a cup of wine and brings it back to Yennefer, offering it to her. She finishes fishing off her shoes, leaving her feet delicate and bare, before accepting it.

"Nothing for you?" He shakes his head and sits beside her. "Very well. I'll see to your shoulder once Geralt has brought us something to eat. He'll likely want to lurk and know what we've done until then."

Jaskier's expression twists in a frown. If she's tired, if she hasn't the energy or magic to help him until then, what _are_ they going to do?

"That you're sitting here with me shows you've a spine of steel," she goes on. "Despite the horrors you've been through. Geralt told me all he knew, but I'm sure that wasn't all of it. Of course it wasn't."

He inclines his head.

"Euphenia is a petty bitch, and Henselt wasn't much better," she says, sitting back and taking a long sip of the wine. "Petty, proprietary, disgusting, wastes of space. If all they did was take your voice, I'll eat my shoes without salt."

That's so incredibly on point that it startles a chuckle out of him. He panics for a second, without a handkerchief to mop up the bile, but Yennefer draws one out of thin air for him, completely unconcerned. 

"I already promised Geralt I would look for her, but it will be easier with your help." She doesn't stare at him while she talks, which is quite nice of her. Jaskier thinks he would probably perish under the intensity of her gaze. Instead she swirls the wine in her cup and rolls her ankle absentmindedly. "You have in your mind clues that may lead me to her."

He flinches away, unable to stop himself. Her eyes flick to his face.

"I'm not going to take them unasked, bard. I'm not that callous a bitch," she tells him. "But you should know their worth. There may be no cure for you, without her. Meddling with curses without full knowledge of how they were cast can cause only trouble. It could make the damage permanent."

That isn't an idea he can contemplate, especially without wine. He stands abruptly to pour himself a cup, fumbling it terribly when someone knocks on the door. Yennefer vanishes the mess with a flick of her fingers and calls for the person who knocked to enter.

It's Geralt, with a tray of fruit and cheese. There is a rather startling bruise across one of his eyes, a dark purple that is fading to blue even as Jaskier stares.

"Really?" Yennefer tuts, gliding to her feet and taking his chin in hand. "You've found time for brawling?"

"I'm fine," Geralt replies gruffly. He turns away from her, setting the tray on a table. "Are you well, Jaskier?"

Jaskier nods. 

"He's fine. I see Eskel, at least, is respecting his desire for privacy." Yennefer turns on her heel, settling again on the sofa and nabbing a wedge of cheese. "Do you need to be shown the door?"

Geralt doesn't move for a long moment, but without the focus of Yennefer's gaze on him, his expression gentles a bit as he looks to Jaskier. Jaskier musters another small smile and nods. He is fine. As fine as possible. Geralt seems to accept this and takes his leave.

Yennefer picks at the tray like a bird, nibbling at a small wedge of cheese here and there, but not committing. Not eating to restore energy, like Jaskier expected. He wonders if she's not truly hungry, if it was a ploy somehow, or if this is just how she is, if it's part of maintaining a sorceress image. One cannot gorge oneself and still appear striking, sexy, and aloof. 

She does select an apple, though, and bites into it crisply, without smearing the bold red of her lipstick. That's some feat.

Once she's swallowed that bite, she speaks.

"I'll not pretend finding Euphenia isn't also a matter of professional interest, both for myself and Geralt," she says. She takes another bite, a delicate one, and lets him turn those words over in his mind before continuing. "To be blunt, there was no virility spell. She sold Henselt a lie, and that lie cost dozens if not hundreds of lives. If not for the intention he believed, then for what?"

There is a hard anger in her eyes, fury that he's seen echoed in the gaze of the Witchers as they realized what was happening.

"I want to squeeze the answers out of anyone that may have them," she says, violet color flaring briefly. "But Geralt believes you innocent, and traumatized enough besides."

She sighs, as though this is an incredible tragedy, and sets the apple aside. 

"Well. Shall we see to that shoulder?"

This is how he finds himself sitting on a wooden stool before the hearth. She steps back to give him space to undress, and he does so, gritting his teeth as pulling off his shirt requires raising his arms. It was a poor choice of clothes, but it is what he had. He wears nothing beneath, his skin slightly flushed beneath his chest hair from the exertion. 

Yennefer unbinds the wound and cleans off the poultices with a wet cloth. He flinches at the temperature of the water, but she doesn't apologize, so neither does he. One of her hands curls around his good shoulder to steady him, and he can feel her fingertips brushing his shoulder blade.

She can feel the words there, he is certain.

She gives no indication. Instead, she closes her eyes and her left hand glows with magic the same purple as her eyes. Jaskier feels a little giddy and a little nauseous, so he closes his eyes as well, half expecting more pain. Instead there is a gentle warmth, almost like the comfort of the fire at his back, and then she steps away. 

"Raise your arm," she commands. He opens his eyes and lifts his good arm over his head. Her sigh is sharp. "Other arm."

Oh, right. He does so, cautiously, and it feels fine. She walks him through a variety of poses to test the mobility of the limb and seems satisfied with his performance. 

"Bed rest for at least another day. Your body will need to acclimate to what I've just done," she instructs. Then, before he can react, she moves behind him. She places one hand around his neck, holding him in place as she takes in the sight of him, of what Euphenia wrote into his skin, and then there is a cooling sensation down the blade of his shoulder. "And we'll just keep this between us, hm? I imagine you haven't told anyone else, or the Wolves would be rounding up every mage and every noble in Kaedwen."

He shakes his head, gut twisting. Why— why would she do that? Learn his secret and then help him to keep it?

She leads him by the hand to a mirror and positions him facing away from it, then hands him a smaller looking glass. When he holds it up he can see in the larger mirror that his skin is clear. No trace of words.

He begins to speak, only to drip black bile on her rug.

"It's just a glamor, but it will hold for a few months at least," she tells him. She takes back the looking glass. "That ought to be long enough, don't you think? The Wolves seem to care for you. Don't disappoint them, little flower."

She pats his cheek and then drops onto the sofa again.

"Now get out and tell them not to bother me for another day, at least."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a busy morning, so you're getting a late night post instead!
> 
> Some words of warning about this chapter: we're going to be exploring some of Jaskier's trauma. Mind the tags.
> 
> The latter half of the chapter involves memories of his time in Henselt's court. After he meets with Yennefer, if you want to skip the more troubling bits of the chapter, you can skip to the end. Move forward to "It takes Jaskier a moment to realize her voice is no longer just inside his head." 
> 
> If you want to read the second half of the chapter, but skip the memory involving sexual assault, skip forward at: "Eskel squeezes his ankle again." to "Enough. When did you see her next?"
> 
> I will provide a brief summary of what the memories reveal in the end notes. Please ask me if you have any questions or need me to tag anything additional! I love you all and want you to have fun and be safe!
> 
> Otherwise, thank you for reading and for yelling at me in the comments! I anticipate more yelling, haha.

Jaskier steps out of Yennefer's chambers and immediately spots Eskel and Geralt at the end of the hall, kneeling with their eyes closed. The bruise across Geralt's eye has faded to an ugly smear of green and yellow, a testament to the healing capabilities of the men before him. Both Witchers look up before he reaches them, but don't seem to be in any hurry to stand.

Jaskier signs a silent hello.

This seems to be what they were waiting for. He can see the slightest moue of disappointment in Geralt's expression, tucked away again almost before it can be perceived. Eskel's muscles bunch as he makes to stand, but he pauses as Jaskier lowers himself to the stone floor in front of them.

_ She said come back tomorrow _ , he signs, making full use of both of his hands. It feels especially freeing to do so again, and he can't help the smile that curves his lips. 

"Tomorrow," Eskel agrees aloud, mirroring his smile. "We'll bring you right up."

Jaskier shuffles forward until his knees bump into theirs and reaches up, cupping Geralt's jaw and tipping his head to one side to better see the bruise. This close he can see the man's nostrils flare slightly as he inhales, his eyelids lowering to half mast as he meets Jaskier's gaze. Jaskier raises his brow and taps very, very, gently at the edge of the discolored skin.

Geralt snorts and turns his head away.

"That was me, actually," Eskel admits, looking sheepish. He holds up his hands in surrender when Jaskier turns on him with disbelief. "It was an accident."

"It's common for us to spar," Geralt says. Jaskier can feel the way his face moves beneath his hand as he speaks, and it makes him flush, pulling away. "We wrestle sometimes, or train with weapons to keep our skills sharp. Sometimes my brothers find it more interesting to initiate practice without warning."

"He was sulking," Eskel says. He clambers to his feet and offers Jaskier his hand. "Not my fault he wasn't ready. Possibly my fault he cracked his face into a sconce."

Jaskier raises both brows at that. Eskel shrugs.

"I thought he'd catch himself."

"I would have, if Lambert hadn't tackled me at the same moment," Geralt grumbles. He doesn't sound truly angry at all, just a bit petulant about being ganged up on. 

"Well, that's his fault, then," Eskel replies with a smirk. He offers Geralt his hand in turn and hauls the Wolf to his feet. "Distracted you for a bit, though."

They seem intent on leading Jaskier back to his chambers, which isn't a bad thought. Yennefer had recommended bed rest, and he is a bit tired, a sort of weariness that has seeped into his bones that he's just coming to terms with, but what Jaskier wants more than anything right now is a bath.

He signs as much to Eskel, who translates for him, and Geralt nods. They don't alter course, but stop a few doors early and turn into a room made entirely of tile mosaics. In the center there is a sunken tub, large enough for two men. Jaskier can't help the way his hands flutter in delight at the sight. Something so big must take ages to fill, which means the water will cool as it does so, but even a lukewarm bath that lets him spread out will be a delight.

The tub works with a spigot, the logistics of which Jaskier doesn't care to interrogate; the water that comes out is room temperature at best, but he's still delighted by it. He flits around the room, examining the shelves and various bottles and soaps contained within. There's an entire rack of bath towels, and a stone hearth which is currently unlit. Gods, he could have his bath and a fire warmed towel, with a little effort. The only thing that could make this better would be having his voice back. The acoustics in here are wonderful.

In fact, they're nice enough to hear Geralt and Eskel grunting at each other, looking disdainful. Geralt notices him first and crosses to the hearth. He makes a hand sign— very much unlike the ones that Jaskier has been communicating with— and suddenly fire leaps up on the logs.

_ Thank you _ , Jaskier signs, startled and very much impressed. Geralt nods. He runs his fingers under the tap and scoffs, shaking his head at Eskel. 

Yes, alright, Jaskier thinks. So they're not as enamored by a washroom as Jaskier is, but gods does he need a bath. Badly. And a haircut. He doesn't like his hair down past his chin the way it is now. He eyes one of the knives strapped to Geralt's leg. Then he finds himself staring at the muscled leg itself.

"Jaskier?"

Oh dear. Staring at a man's thigh in a washroom is probably poor practice. 

_ I need clean clothes _ , he says, fingers stumbling over the words.  _ And a haircut.  _ And possibly a lay. Geralt has very nice thighs. His heart rate ratchets up in his chest and he has to turn away at that point, forcing himself to paw through the bottles.

Four months of this, of… everything, and he hasn't felt a hint of his usual easy going, easily given heart. A heart that generally leads him to tumbling into bed with anyone who will offer. A young man has  _ needs,  _ there's nothing wrong with that. 

A season of having your throat fucked raw by any man with a passing whim puts something of a damper on those needs. 

"I'll get Aubry," Geralt says, which must make sense to Eskel because the other Witcher nods and leans back against the wall near the door, watching Jaskier flit around the room as the bath fills. 

Jaskier doesn't look at him, just keeps browsing through the shelves. He uncorks a few of the bottles to see what's inside, finding different oils and scents, and picks out an orange citrus hair oil, a bar of lavender soap for his body, and a sachet of vanilla smelling salts for the water. 

"Jaskier," Eskel rumbles, closer to him suddenly. Jaskier flinches heavily, but catches himself against a shelf. Eskel, ever the gentlemen, waits until he's collected himself before continuing. "There's more magic on you than when you left. If Yennefer has done something, it's alright to tell us. To tell me. She and Geralt may have a past, but that's no excuse."

He looks so concerned and gentle, like he will wrap himself around Jaskier to protect him without a second thought and for a moment Jaskier wants to step up against him and let that happen. But he doesn't. He offers him a reassuring smile instead.

_ She's helping _ , he tells him.  _ Thank you _ . 

He steps away and adds a handful of salts to the water. The scent of vanilla blossoms into the air. 

Much to his surprise, Eskel takes the vial intended for his hair and puts it back on the shelf. He selects another and offers it to Jaskier instead. Uncorking it, Jaskier finds a much more subdued honey scent. 

"Witcher senses," Eskel says, glancing away. He looks almost a little embarrassed, if Jaskier had to guess. "Go around doused in oranges and lemongrass, we'll be overwhelmed."

Jaskier makes an exaggerated expression of understanding and offers up the bar of lavender soap for inspection. It seems to pass. Beside them, the tub continues to fill. 

A knock announces Geralt's return. He brings with him another Witcher, another Wolf if his medallion is any indication, who looks slightly bemused by his summoning.

"This is Aubry," Eskel says. "Aubry, Jaskier. Think you can help?"

Aubry is holding a small roll of leather, and seems to have politely disarmed himself before entering, which Jaskier very much appreciates. It is probably normal to feel self-conscious surrounded by all of these men that look like they could break him between two fingers, but if just one or two of them wasn't the size of a tree, it would be good for his self esteem.

For his nerves, as well.

Aubry hums an affirmative and unrolls the leather, which appears to be a carrying case of sorts for two sizes of very sharp shears and a comb. He retrieves a towel from the rack and gestures for Jaskier to sit down. 

He does so, letting the Witcher cover his shoulders with the towel and trying not to shake. 

"Relax," Geralt rumbles. He sets the pile of clothes he is carrying on a shelf and kneels down near Jaskier's stool.

"Aubry is well sought after at Kaer Mohren in the winter," Eskel adds, perching on the edge of the tub across from him. "Even the Wolf here lets him trim his ends now and again." 

"Ragged lot, otherwise," Aubry says, his voice like a quiet roll of thunder. "How short?"

Jaskier swallows and reaches up, indicating the length he prefers. He tries to show how his bangs used to swoop over his forehead, but isn't sure he's succeeded, nor whether his hairdresser is up to the cut. He folds his hands in his lap again and tries not to hold his breath. 

It would be really, really, nice if he could at least hum right now.

He can't, though, so he bites his tongue and stares at his hands as Aubry begins his work. The room is quiet, save for the sound of the filling of the tub and the slicing of hair. Aubry doesn't touch him much, save for a finger here and there to tilt his head this way or encourage him to lift his chin, but Jaskier sinks into himself anyway, unable to stand it and stay present.

At some point, someone turns off the water, and he knows he should despair that it is cooling without him, but his chest is tight and his mind is blank.

A hand lands on his knee, and Geralt says, in front of him, "Jaskier?" His tone indicates this isn't the first time he's said it, and Jaskier swallows quickly, tipping his head to show he's listening. He realizes that Aubrey is in his line of sight, several feet away now, wiping off the scissors with a rag.

"Would you like to see?" Geralt indicates a mirror in the corner of the room and, on unsteady legs, Jaskier goes to look. 

The man in the reflection almost looks like him, now. In need of a shave, perhaps, but that much he can manage on his own. Better than— yes. Better than the alternative. He turns and gives Aubry a nod of thanks, which the man returns, and then begins looking for a shaving kit. Surely there must be one in here somewhere.

Behind him there is an unfamiliar whooshing sound and a flare of heat. He turns to see a spout of flame erupting from Eskel's hand, which is pointed at the filled tub. 

"Not so close to the water," Geralt chides. "Turn it down some. You'll just steam it all away."

"Thanks for the lecture, Vesemir," Eskel replies, doing something that lowers the flame. A nice steam begins to emit from the tub, much to Jaskier's delight. He expresses so with a grin, fluttering to the edge of the bath to test the water with his hand once Eskel has stopped spouting fire. It's perfect. 

He signs his thanks and moves to pile a few towels between the hearth and the tub where they can warm up as well.

"Someone will wait outside for you," Geralt says. "Don't drown."

Jaskier huffs, affecting a pout.  _ I know the way back to my room _ , he signs.  _ I don't need watching _ . 

After Eskel translates for him, the Wolves exchange a look that quickly evaporates his lightened mood. 

_ Do I? _

Aubry makes a pointed exit. Jaskier wishes he could as well. He can tell he's not going to like whatever it is they're about to tell him.

"We don't know what Euphenia wanted," Eskel says quietly. "What she was trying to achieve. It likely wasn't anything good. Even if you don't know anything about that, you're still… connected to her. You're a way to find her and she knows it."

"She may intend to tie up loose ends," Geralt concludes. "If that is the case, we neither want you harmed, nor for her to get away."

Right, Jaskier thinks. Right. He's just… walking mage bait. That's perfect, nothing to be concerned about at all. He nods, and then nods again, jaw clenched as he considers this. Then he raises his arms.

_ Dagger training. _ What is a dagger, against a sorceress? But perhaps it will buy him some time, if nothing else. Eskel nods and translates his words.

"Lambert mentioned as much," Geralt says. "We'll teach you, but not today. I've been on the receiving end of magical healing. I'll bet Yen told you to rest."

Jaskier can't deny that, even if he wants to. He's probably not up for any kind of training at all. Still, he feels better knowing that the Witchers have agreed to help him defend himself. The weapons training of his youth has long since fled his mind, and as Lambert had demonstrated he isn't really up to the task on his own. 

"Have your bath," Eskel tells him. "Then rest. We'll discuss the rest of it tomorrow."

Jaskier nods and the Witchers begin to leave. Geralt pauses at the door. "Drop one of those bottles if you need help. Make a clatter. Someone will rush in." 

He huffs at the thoughtfulness of it, and shoos them out. Now he just needs to manage without  _ accidentally _ knocking over one of the bottles and embarrassing himself.

~

When he is clean and dry and dressed, Jaskier pads from the washroom, barely able to keep his eyes open. Warmth has suffused his entire body, settling into his tired bones. He feels as content as a cat and wants nothing more than a nap in a sunbeam. 

Geralt is waiting for him in the hall. He appraises him with a glance and seems to be pleased with what he finds.

"To bed, then," he says. "We'll send supper up." 

He offers Jaskier his arm when he stumbles and steers him down the hall toward his room. The fire is lit in the hearth, but the room is otherwise empty of visitors and Wolves. Jaskier climbs into the bed and pulls the covers up to his chin.

"It suits you better this way." Geralt sets Jaskier's dirtied clothes down atop the trunk at the end of the bed and looks at him for a long moment. Not following, Jaskier tilts his head in confusion. "Your hair."

It's a nice thing to say, and Jaskier agrees. He pats Geralt's hand and turns over, curling up and letting sleep take him.

He's woken for dinner by Vesemir, who sits quietly and eats with him, rescuing his bowl when it begins to slip from his slack hands as he drifts off again. Then it is morning before he's really noticed the time passing and he feels more energized and awake than he has in ages. 

The fuzziness that had overwhelmed him since his voice was taken has receded mostly to the edges now. Perhaps it was just panic, the knowledge that he was trapped and no one was coming to save him, that no one could overrule the king and that this was his lot now for the rest of his life. 

Now there's hope and even just a sliver of it has given him a reason to face the day.

The prospect of returning to face Yennefer again isn't enough to shatter his mood entirely, but when the Wolves mention his visit over breakfast, it does make him baulk.

"Would you like company?" Eskel asks, apparently reading his expression, and Jaskier almost automatically says no before actually considering the offer. 

He does feel safer with one of the Wolves around, his heart less likely to rabbit out of his chest, and now that the words no longer sprawl over his skin he's in no danger of tempting them. Yennefer has promised to keep his secret and though she hadn't specified he was to come first thing this morning, he'd like to get this done with. So… yes. Yes, he would like company.

He communicates as much to Eskel, who holds up a hand before Geralt can speak.

"I had to do meeting yesterday. It's your turn for that, Wolf. I'll go with him." 

Geralt huffs. "Revenge is petty, Eskel."

"So are the lords clamoring for answers." Eskel claps his shoulder. "Come on, bard. Let's go see Yen."

Jaskier is proud of the fact that only his hands are shaking as they traverse the halls of the palace to the rooms he had visited yesterday. Yennefer opens the door for them before Eskel can even raise his fist, and gives them both a look when the Witcher follows Jaskier inside without so much as a by your leave.

"He asked me to come," he does say, once she's closed the door behind them. Yennifer ignores him, her piercing gaze fixed on Jaskier instead.

"This is what you want?" she asks.

Jaskier nods. 

"Sit, then," she orders. "On the couch, if you would."

He sits. Eskel stands near the door, arms folded over his chest, looking as intimidating as he had the first time Jaskier had seen him, the night the Witchers had arrived. Little had Jaskier known the man would turn out to be an ally. Still, his posturing isn't actually doing much for Jaskier's nerves, so he pats the cushion beside him hopefully. Eskel takes the hint.

"You know he's no match for me," Yennefer says casually, as she crosses the room to a desk. There is detritus on it that Jaskier immediately classifies as "sorceress things": parchment, vials, a little mortar and pestle. 

"Yen," Eskel sighs, sinking onto the sofa. He doesn't really lounge: the swords on his back make it a little difficult for that, but he slouches a bit, obviously not offended or worried. 

"I'm just saying. If I really meant him harm, I'd be able to do so with or without your presence." 

"That's different than saying I'm no match for you," Eskel points out.

She concedes with a laugh. "Oh, it would be quite the fight. But you'd be too distracted trying to protect him to win outright."

Eskel rolls his eyes. 

"She's not going to hurt you, Jaskier," he says, and somehow, despite the conversation, Jaskier is actually reassured. Maybe he has no common sense left. It all got knocked out of him at some point along the way.

"I'm not," Yennefer agrees. She returns to them, carrying a small folding table. She sets it up in front of him and then places a crystal on one side, and a small bowl of unidentified powder on the other. "At least, that's not the intent. I have two options for you, which I will lay out and you will indicate which one you prefer."

Jaskier nods, eying both items on the table with some trepidation. Yennefer moves the crystal forward.

"The first is painful, but quick. I will examine the magic Euphenia placed on you directly and use the traces of that to locate her workshop and, with luck, get more information about her plans from there. If unsuccessful, we may need the second method."

She puts the crystal back in its original place and pushes forward the bowl.

"The second will take longer, and cause no physical pain. You will guide me to your strongest memories of Euphenia and together we will follow her trail through your mind, until I've seen all there is to see. You will be a spectator to the memories, but they will not hurt you."

Oh gods, Jaskier thinks, looking over his options. He is not a fan of pain, not in the slightest, but he is also not a fan of reliving memories of the past season with another sorceress at his shoulder. Can he survive this woman knowing him so intimately? Seeing what's been done to him?

He raises his hands to speak.  _ Will you just see, or feel emotions and thoughts? _

Eskel translates for him, and he's immensely glad that he brought the man. He has no doubt Yennefer has a way to make sure she understands him, but he'd like her to stay out of his head until the last possible moment, frankly. 

"It will be as though I am having the experience from your perspective," she explains. "I will retain my own thoughts, but be aware of your emotional state."

It's not a good choice. None of it is good. But sweet Melitele, what if he goes through the pain of the first, only to be told it wasn't enough and she needs the second as well? Best to just… do the more thorough examination, right?

He steels himself and indicates the bowl.

Before he has time to rethink or take back his choice, Yennefer stands and picks up the bowl, sweeping the table away with a single gesture.

"Lay down," she instructs. "Get as comfortable as you can."

Well, Jaskier has never been one to deny himself that. He tugs off his boots and unfastens his doublet, then curls on his side on the couch. Eskel begins to rise, to make room for him, and Jaskier rather insistently puts his feet in the man's lap instead, silently begging him to stay close.

Across the room Yennefer does something to the bowl in her hands, and it starts to smoke. When she returns, she wedges herself onto the couch as well, so that his head is pillowed on her thigh and it's surprisingly nice. Her hand is gentle in his hair, despite the nerves rattling through him, and as she draws the bowl closer he finds it's less like smoke and more like steam or fog.

"Inhale and think of your first meeting," she tells him. "Close your eyes. This will help to guide me in your mind. When we're through I'll send you into a light sleep."

If he wasn't already so nervous, the position might be terrifying, but as it is only one of Eskel's hands is resting lightly over his ankle and Yennefer's touches remain light and cautious. Soothing, despite the power and rage she contains. If she had a cock— and really, he shouldn't make assumptions about this sort of thing, he knows better than to guess what's in people's trousers before he sees for himself— he might be panicking this close, but her dress is a smooth silk beneath his cheek and he's facing out, toward the room instead of toward her body.

"Focus, bard," she chides, and he tries to reel his thoughts back on task. "Euphenia." 

Euphenia. 

He'd been so pleased by the invitation to play at the royal court. He's been requested before by various levels of nobility, both for events and for seasons, but never by royalty. Kaedwen isn't his favorite country, a little rough around the edges, a little too northern for his tastes, with the winter bitingly cold, but he figured that wouldn't matter much once he was safely installed in the court. There would be plenty of firesides to play beside and plenty of wine and ale to warm him.

Unfortunately when he announces his arrival, he's not taken to the king or shown to rooms. He's taken to a godsdamned cell to stew for a few days. 

_ A little further along if you would, little flower _ , he hears Yennefer say in his mind as he recalls that particular turn of events.

When Henselt finally deigns to see him, it is in the company of the sorceress and a few of his favored lords. As this memory settles he feels himself sink into it, feels as though he is there now, watching the king smirk and the lords look curiously on. 

Euphenia herself is tall, with clear skin and brown hair that falls in gentle waves to her shoulders. There's nothing gentle about her eyes, or the smirk set upon her lips, or the red lacquered nails that she drags across Jaskier's face as she stalks around him. Her dress is a matching red, tight and revealing in the bodice, but loose and flowing in the skirt, which whispers against him as she takes him in.

"Oh yes, your Majesty," she says, tone lilting as she stops behind Jaskier. She clutches one hand in his hair, dragging his head back and forcing him to look up at the king from his kneeling position. "You'll enjoy this one. I've the perfect punishment for him."

Henselt waves his hand, ordering her to continue, and Jaskier feels the swell of panic that rises in his chest as she tears open his doublet. A knife draws his chemise open as well, and both garments are left hanging by his wrists bound behind his back. 

_ Relax, Jaskier, _ Yennefer says, reminding him that he's not here, really. That he isn't alone. He doesn't precisely feel Euphenia's nail, drawing words into his shoulder blade. It's just a memory. What he feels instead is Eskel gently squeezing his ankle in reassurance. It's a very odd sensation to be both places at once.

Jaskier feels himself struggle and cry out, begging and sobbing, the way he had when he arrived. He'd been so terrified and so very alone. Then all at once his words turn to nothing but bile and he chokes on them, earning a delighted laugh from the king.

"You won't be able to speak against me or any of my lords ever again," Henselt says, crouching down in front of Jaskier. "No more of your stupid little songs." 

He grabs Jaskier by the hair and presses his face against the marble floor, slick with the black bile, and Jaskier wretches again as he tries to protest. He learns fairly quickly how sensitive the curse is, and bites down on his tongue.

"Don't sell me short, majesty," Euphenia says. She laughs, a high, girlish giggle. "He isn't completely useless. I've something of a demonstration, if you would allow it?"

Henselt lets him up and Jaskier falls back on his knees, at once panting for breath and wild with panic and calm. This fugue state between experiencing the memory and witnessing it is a bizarre one. The lack of pain, the lack of any physical sensation is helping to keep him from panicking again, but he knows what is coming and can't help the way his heartbeat ratchets up a few notches. 

Eskel squeezes his ankle again.

"Now, you're all well aware that Sir Brond here is bastard born, hmm?" Euphenia draws the man in question closer. He looks uncomfortable at the reference to his birth, but goes with her willingly. 

"His service to the crown has been unimpeachable," Henselt says puffing up. Euphenia waves a languid hand in his direction.

"I make no judgments on the company you keep, my liege. The point I make is that he is not born a noble as the others in this room." She works open Brond's trousers and frees his cock, giving it a pointed stroke. "Fuck the bard's mouth, Brond. Come down his throat. Bard, if you resist— well. Your voice isn't the only thing I can take away."

There's no issue of performance anxiety, or concern about the black bile that's stained around Jaskier's mouth. With his fellows cheering him on and under the king's watchful eye, Brond does as he's told and Jaskier gags on his first cock of the season, but far from his last.

Euphenia drapes herself over Brond's back, hooking her chin over his shoulder and touching his chest and hair as he forces his cock into Jaskier's throat again and again. Jaskier meets her gaze at first, trying to glare, trying to ask why she's done this, but it becomes too much for him. Brond's hand fists in his hair, yanking him forward as he thrusts and he hasn't yet learned to contain any whimpers or sounds of pain; slippery bile floods his mouth, leaking over the cock and spilling down his own chest.

_ Move forward _ , Yennefer commands. Even in his head her voice sounds tight.  _ After that, what happened? _

"Speak," Euphenia says, when he's caught his breath again, the taste of seed bitter against his tongue. He shakes his head knowing that he can't, that he'll just make a fool of himself. Her heeled boot makes an abrupt connection with his groin, and he doubles over, shouting silently in pain. Bile splatters against the floor before him.

"No change." She whirls, gesturing demonstratively to the lords and the king, before gliding up to Henselt again. "But if you spend in him like that, your majesty, or any of your noble lords, he will regain his voice, for a quarter of an hour. Fill him up with noble seed and he'll sing for you."

The king laughs, places a kiss on Euphenia's waiting cheek, and moves forward to try it.

_ Enough _ . _ When did you see her next? _

He thinks that their next encounter shouldn't be memorable, but there must have been something in that fog he inhaled, because his mind immediately moves the scene forward to that evening, to dining in the great hall and watching Euphenia whisper in the king's ear. He's given a seat at the high table, like a guest of honor, but his face and clothes are stained, and rumors of what he's doing there have spread through the palace like wildfire. 

_ Next, _ Yennefer orders. 

And so it goes, sliding along the thread of his memories and alighting upon each one in which he sees the mage. Hopefully Yennefer learns something from it, because all it does for Jaskier is stir up feelings of mortification and self-loathing. He should have fought harder, should have struggled. Perhaps dying would have been better than being used like this and tossed aside.

"Enough." It takes Jaskier a moment to realize her voice is no longer just inside his head. He blinks against the light of the fire and shifts to sit up, a bit confused. At his feet, Eskel is entirely tense, watching him with unmasked concern. 

Yennefer rises from the couch and goes instead to the desk, not looking at either of them. She sets the bowl aside and reaches instead for a goblet of wine, drinking deeply.

"That was quite informative, thank you." She sets the goblet down again and Jaskier watches her shoulders move as she breathes. She seems to consciously lower them before turning, a small satchel in hand. She tosses it to Eskel. "Brew that into his tea and he'll sleep for a few hours."

She doesn't meet Jaskier's gaze as she speaks, and that's… fine. He wouldn't want to meet his own gaze after seeing all that, frankly. That's one reason he doesn't want the Wolves to know. He can't imagine they'll keep being so kind to him if they do. If they see how useless he was, how easily he gave in.

Then, as though she has heard his thoughts, Yennefer looks straight at him. "Those who've harmed you will pay, little flower. And I will save Euphenia for your blade, if you so wish." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nature of Jaskier's curse is that he will regain his voice for a quarter of an hour if he swallows the seed of someone with noble blood. The king and his men were eager to test this.
> 
> Find me on tumblr: [hoomhum](hoomhum.tumblr.com) or on twitter [hoomhumhobbit](https://twitter.com/hoomhumhobbit)!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter kicked my butt, so major kudos and thanks to [HastaLux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux) for helping me to figure out what it needed. If you have time, please give her some love! She's written an incredible AW AU, [The Ravens and The Swans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198236) which you should read if you haven't.
> 
> Some housekeeping: I'm going to be posting every other week now. When I started I thought I had enough of a cushion to post every week, but writers block and real life kicked my butt and I'm down to just one and half mostly finished chapters. To keep up reliability and quality, I'm going to give myself some extra time. Look for the next chapter on March 1st, and thank you for sticking with me. <3 I really appreciate it.

Jaskier looks ashen faced and smells of fear and distress as he rises to exit Yen's chambers, and Eskel is at his heels in an instant, hoping either to provide some comfort or to catch the man should he actually fall over. It's devastating to watch; in his recovery Jaskier has shown them he's basically sunshine personified and Eskel feels helpless to see him clouded over.

Yennefer stops him from following his charge with a gentle hand on his arm, drawing him aside for a moment.

"You keep a record of those involved in the king's crimes?" she asks. He nods. "If he isn't dead already, there is a Sir Brond. He's played a part in your bard's suffering. Do with that what you will."

She dismisses him then, turning away like she hasn't dropped a damn bomb. Eskel swears beneath his breath and commits the name to memory as he goes to catch up with Jaskier.

"Easy, little bard," he says when he finds him in the corridor outside, leaning against a wall. He offers his arm. "Can I help? Let's get you into bed."

 _Slept so much_. Jaskier's pouting; he's still pale and trembling, but the petulant expression is much easier to bear than the active scent of fear. Eskel can't do anything about the fear, but he knows how to defeat exhaustion. He begins to steer the bard back toward his rooms, taking as much of his weight as Jaskier will let him.

"Not sure you're up for much else," he points out quietly. "Give it a few hours."

He stops a passing servant and orders up a tea service. At the pace they're moving it might beat them there. 

_Then something fun?_ Jaskier asks. It amazes Eskel how the trauma he's been through hasn't worn down his personality entirely. 

"Yes, bard. Then something fun." He'll hunt down a damn fiddle if it would bring back Jaskier's smile.

He sets up with him on the bed, mother henning him in a way that feels very reminiscent of every time he's caught up with his brothers in a bad way. More than once Geralt or Lambert have just about collapsed at the gates of Kaer Mohren due to injury or malnourishment. They've never asked him to play nursemaid, but that never stops him. He knows they would return the favor if he was ever in need himself. 

Once Jaskier has finished his tiny sandwiches and swallowed down most of the not-unpleasant smelling medicinal tea, he curls into the pillows and Eskel pulls the blanket up over his shoulders. He sends a servant away with the dishes and instructions to find Lambert.

Jaskier is fully asleep by the time his brother arrives to take over guarding the bard. 

Eskel tracks down Geralt from there by scent alone. His feet take him to the man without his input, which leaves his mind free to contemplate what exactly he's going to report. 

Yennefer hadn't exactly overwhelmed him with details. It's… good, he supposes. It's good that she's protective of Jaskier as well, and that she respects his privacy. Jaskier, it seems, has gotten very little respect in his time at Henselt's court. He deserves some now. 

Knowing that doesn't quite tamp down the furious need to know that has been building in Eskel's chest. The desire to understand what's made the joyful bard so afraid, what's given him the tendency to disassociate and flinch, even when they've proven themselves interested in returning his agency. There's something more to it than the loss of his voice and Henselt's cruel humiliation.

Is it to do with the children, maybe? His fists clench at the thought.

Or perhaps he's overthinking it. Jaskier had been wearing a literal leash and collar when they'd found him. They really only know the basic shape of how he's been treated. Perhaps living with that day to day was all it took to turn the man coltish and afraid.

"What happened?" 

Ah. He's found Geralt. His brother breaks away from the royal advisors he's been placating, stepping close with a small furrow in his brow that would have been a full fledged scowl of concern on anyone else. Geralt lowers his voice, crowding Eskel back into the hall. "Where is he? Is he alright?"

"He's— Wolf—" He submits to Geralt sticking his face in his neck with only a moderate amount of exasperation, knowing Geralt is scenting for Jaskier's blood or pain. "Alright, enough. You're frightening the damn nobles. Jaskier is fine."

"Fuck the nobles," Geralt mutters. He does draw away, putting a few inches between them. "The look on your face… seemed like bad news."

"Just thinking."

"It's a bad look on you." 

"Oh, I'll leave all the thinking to you, then, hm? Like that's better." He jostles his brother's shoulder, teasing and reassuring in the same gesture. "Jaskier's in bed, resting. Lambert's looking after him."

"And?"

"And nothing," he sighs. "Yen did her thing. Whole fucking hour, the both of them in a weird trance. Bard comes out of it looking awful. Even Yen was shaken, I think, but she said it worked, that it was "informative". Didn't say anything else about it, except a name. Sir Brond. Said he was involved in hurting Jaskier, somehow."

"She say how?"

Eskel shakes his head. "Just that he played a part in Jaskier's suffering."

"Jaskier didn't say more?"

"He was... " Eskel isn't sure how to describe it. He sighs again, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "He was so fucking tired, Wolf. Terrified. Looked like he was going to shatter. He didn't say anything about what he showed Yennefer."

"So we don't know what this man did. Sounds like Yen thinks he deserves the ax, or worse, though."

Eskel fingers the calluses of his thumb, taking a moment to figure out how to say in kinder terms than the ones he is thinking, that Yen has something of a bloodthirsty streak. It might be justified this time, but they don't know for certain and that bothers him. Geralt seems to read his thoughts on his face.

"Hmm," he agrees, thoughtful. "I'll ask Vesemir to see if the man's in our records at least. We can decide what to do with him once we find him."

Eskel nods. "Alright. You should get back to it. The kid get here yet?"

The kid in question is no kid at all, but a minor lord riding in from bumfuck nowhere. It's the most important thing on the agenda, as they've got to determine if he's actually a suitable candidate to be king. The advisors and guild heads have thrown up a lot of fuss, but as far as they can tell everyone in line before him knew about Henselt's horrendous actions or partook themselves. Settling a clean king and handing over the reins of the palace is, despite what the courtiers seem to think, a priority for the Witchers.

Geralt nods. "He got in this morning. Vesemir is with him. I'll check on Jaskier first."

"He just got to sleep." 

Geralt just looks at him in that way that means he's absolutely not budging on this, and Eskel shakes his head in exasperation. 

"Fine. A quick look." 

It's tempting to tease Geralt about his concern for the bard, but Eskel knows that he's just as bad by now. He just hides it a little better.

When they arrive, Jaskier is still sleeping. At first glance, Lambert appears to be as well, but Eskel doesn't miss the way his hand twitches toward the sword at his side when the door opens. Recognizing the intruders, the Wolf relaxes again into his chair. Eskel gives Geralt a moment to look, to take in the bard's small, curled figure on the bed, and to scent the contentment in the air, before dragging him away again. They pass Aiden in the hall, who seems to have settled into a lurk, but Eskel doesn't spare him more than half a thought.

They've much to attend to if the Witchers have any hope of fully departing. Now that the heir apparent has arrived, they can finally ramp up their efforts to do so.

Eskel aches to get back on the Path, to return to some semblance of normalcy and to see what sort of world awaits them. Each day more and more of the company that helped them to overtake Ard Carraigh sets out, some taking with them children to escort home while others simply have no desire to see the political situation set to rights.

He envies those who feel they can just walk away without a care for what happens in the aftermath, but not so much that he's tempted to join them. His place has always been beside Geralt, ensuring that humans have as little reason as possible to see their kind as monsters. Throwing the monarchy into chaos and disappearing into the night would do just that.

There's goodwill to be earned by putting control in the right hands, and by resettling the children whose lives have been torn asunder by Henselt's terror. Sure, they could just hand them to the church, or leave them for the scrambling nobility to deal with, but if you want something done right you do it yourself. 

When Vesemir taught them that, he probably hadn't imagined this situation. 

They leave the bard to his slumber and attend a morning full of work no amount of training at Kaer Mohren had prepared them for. They organize supplies and strategize with convoys of Witchers leaving the city who will return children to their homes and distribute Henselt's wealth. They intimidate and interrogate officials and advisors to ensure that nothing like this will happen again and that not even a hint of what has happened is left buried.

Much of it is unpleasant to deal with. The remaining nobles and officials are largely bewildered and untrusting as they try to return control of the palace. The new king is uncertain on his throne, deferring to Vesemir or turning to Geralt with wide, confused eyes whenever someone asks him for orders. They're all bewildered by the fact that the Witchers don't actually want to rule. It would be comical if it weren't so exhausting.

It's a relief in the early afternoon when Aubry approaches with a spry looking and extravagantly dressed older man, who is introduced as Benedikt Ket.

"This must not be the gentleman I was hired to dress, Master Witcher," Benedikt says to Geralt, with surprising familiarity. "You said he had more style than you do. I would like to get started straight away. I brought everything I could, as you requested. Someone will need to unload my cart."

Geralt nods, eyes flicking to Aubry, who turns around and catches Coën by the arm. They disappear back toward the gates to take care of the cart, and Geralt motions for Benedikt to follow him upstairs toward Jaskier's room.

Eskel trails after them, a little bemused by the slight at his style. Geralt isn't precisely known for his fashion; black is a choice, sure, but he wouldn't say it's a fashionable one. A tailor, though, contracted from the city while Eskel was stuck in meetings or with Jaskier the previous day, that's interesting. Geralt seems to be avoiding his eye, no doubt conscious of the fact that he's doing a ridiculous, sentimental, generous thing and doesn't want to be teased for it.

That's a little bit insulting. Eskel would never. Lambert's the one that would tease. 

Will tease, Eskel realizes, as they approach the hall in question. Aiden isn't lurking about outside anymore, but there's a faint sound of conversation within and notes from the clavichord. 

He quickens his step, overtaking Geralt and entering the room first, by a few good seconds. Jaskier is sandwiched between Lambert and Aiden on the bed, the three of them fumbling through a song. Well, two of them are fumbling. Jaskier is playing beautifully with both hands, occasionally reaching out to correct the position of a droning high or low key that the Witcher on either side of him has been put in charge of. He's smiling, lit up and looking better by far than he had when Eskel had left him that morning. The sight of it makes Eskel's normally steady heart give an extra thump. He ignores it.

"Go get lunch," he tells his brother, knowing he'll take the Cat with him. For once in his life, Lambert doesn't complain or argue; he elbows Jaskier cheerfully and clambers off the bed.

"C'mon, kitten, let's see if they're doing anything more complicated than fucking stew," he calls, leading the way. Aiden flashes Jaskier a grin and vaults the bed after him, the pair of them just barely avoiding crashing into Geralt and their guest.

"Surprise for you," Eskel tells Jaskier. He shifts the clavichord down the bed and offers the bard his hand. Jaskier stands, confused, and before Eskel can explain any more Geralt and Benedikt enter the room. The tailor stops in the doorway in shock.

"Master Julian!" he cries. "Well I never— that can't be the littlest Viscount de Lettenhove."

Eskel and Geralt exchange an uncertain glance, but Jaskier brings a hand to his mouth, confusion turning to surprise and… fondness? When Benedikt steps forward with open arms, Jaskier crosses to him quickly, throwing himself at the man.

"They said there was a bard here that needed a wardrobe, is that true? Our little Jaskier really made it?" Benedikt wraps Jaskier in a bear hug, rocking him side to side and laughing in delight. "How could this be?"

Jaskier steps back far enough to sign, a smile splitting his face. _I left after Oxenfurt_.

Interpreting for Jaskier is second nature by now, but Eskel feels awkward doing it, his rough voice breaking the moment. This is clearly a special reunion of some kind and it's none of their business, even if Geralt's bard is apparently a Viscount, which seems like pretty important information that Jaskier left out when introducing himself. 

Benedikt is looking between them with concern, though, and mounting suspicion, threatening to break the happy spell. Jaskier puts a hand to his throat, expression awkward.

"He's just recovering from an illness," Eskel says, before Benedikt can ask. "His voice will be back soon." 

He knows as soon as he's said it that the lie is a flimsy one. Jaskier is skinny, unexpectedly mute, and all of his clothes are stained with an oily black bile. Still, he gets the feeling Jaskier doesn't want to explain how he's ended up in this mess. He's been cagey about the particular nature of his curse and maybe it's best not to spread around that there's a curse to begin with. Benedikt gives him a considering look, clearly not convinced but put off from pursuing the topic by a commotion behind him.

Aubry enters the room carrying two large trunks, followed by Coën carrying another two, followed by two more Witchers whose names Eskel doesn't know off the top of his head. They're also carrying a pair of trunks each. They set down their burdens and file out again. Benedikt seems satisfied, but Eskel looks at Geralt, brows raised, and Geralt gives the same look to the tailor.

"You said to bring my supplies and whatever I have already prepared, and I've done so," Benedikt says, waving a hand. "Don't look at me in such a way, when it is you who've come with such an odd and rushed order."

Now Jaskier turns to Geralt, askance. Geralt doesn't blush, but he does look decidedly uncomfortable.

"You need clothes," he says finally. "You're owed clothes. Better ones than you have and ones for travel. We leave tomorrow." 

He turns on his heel and strides away. It's incredibly tempting to follow him and make him explain all of that, but Jaskier needs someone to interpret for him, so Eskel just shakes his head and lets his rock-headed brother be for now.

 _Tomorrow_? Jaskier signs, and Eskel nods.

"Tomorrow," he confirms aloud, adding a silent _apparently_ in his mind. "So, Master Ket. What can you have done by then?"

Over the next several hours Eskel learns several things about Jaskier, things that he thinks Geralt probably would have liked to know. Well, serves him right for running off.

Jaskier—Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, apparently, as Benedikt says smartly when the bard won’t stop fidgeting for a proper measurement—hails from a little viscounty in Kerack. Eskel coughs at the name, reminded intimately of a young Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Jaskier, at least, has earned each of his names, along with the title of viscount as his family's eldest son. A viscount as a traveling bard. There's definitely more to that story, Eskel thinks, as the two men explain Benedikt's association.

Benedikt worked for Jaskier's father for most of his life, clothing his family and those who could afford it in the area. He and his wife moved to Kaedwen to look after their adult daughter some years ago, after her husband had passed away.

Jaskier makes an expression of distress at that, but Benedikt waves a hand.

“Oh, her husband was a right bastard. She’s doing quite well now, as are my grandchildren. Bette would be thrilled to hear you are well, Jaskier. She loved your music so.”

Jaskier’s passion for music was loved by many, though not his family, apparently.

 _It wasn’t proper_ , Jaskier explains to Eskel. His hands stutter over the signs, expression thoroughly upset as he throws out words that Eskel has to take a moment to parse. _Useless in running the estate. I never wanted to inherit, so I left._

“You’re a good boy,” Benedikt says, patting Jaskier’s cheek. “They’d have squashed that right out of you, the fools. Now, try this.”

Aside from his heritage, or possibly because of it, Eskel also learns that Jaskier is something of a peacock. The tailor has brought with him a number of half finished pieces; apparently when Geralt recruited him the previous day, he had provided a ruined doublet of Jaskier’s to show the man’s approximate size. Benedikt had pulled everything in his shop and storeroom that could possibly be modified to suit and brought it along, thus all of the trunks of clothes and fabrics.

Eskel is relegated to tailor's assistant, as well as interpreter, as Benedikt orders Jaskier through the motions of trying on the different garments. He's never seen so much fabric of this quality in his life, let alone been invited— or rather, ordered— to touch it. 

"No, _here_ , lad. Don't let it slip!" He ducks his head, pinching the fabric and holding it as instructed against Jaskier's shoulder. The bard makes an amused face, brows raised, lips pursed as though in apology for the tailor's eccentricity. Eskel feels very conscious of how close they are like this, chest to chest. Their eyes are at the same level, as they are of a similar height.

"There!" Benedikt slides between them, little metal pin box in hand. He presses the box into Eskel's free hand and then begins to neatly secure the fold in the fabric. "Good. Step back."

Eskel steps back automatically, only for Benedikt to stop him, with a hand. 

"Not you. Him." He tuts as Jaskier steps back and puts out his arms, modelling the doublet. It's a piece in dark blue, with cut outs along the front. "Good. Take it off. Carefully! Give it to him, and try this one. Eskel, start a pile over there. Lay them flat."

Soon they have several tidy piles of every sort of clothes Jaskier could possibly need. There are billowing shirts, tidy doublets, embroidered chemises; Benedikt fits him with trousers to match, hose and braies, and even supplies him with a pair of boots and a set of silk slippers— from a neighboring shop, apparently. Once the finished articles have been sorted, the men move to admiring bolts of fabric.

“I haven’t the time to make you anything from scratch, dear boy, which is just a crime,” Benedikt says, holding a stretch of shimmering golden fabric up to Jaskier’s chest. “My work could be known across the continent, on a model like you. And this silk is perfectly suited to your complexion.”

Jaskier blushes and waves him away, clearly pleased. _You’re too much_.

“I’m just enough _,_ ” Benedikt corrects, once Eskel relates Jaskier’s words. “I know you would sing my praises.”

 _I will._ Jaskier frowns then, and gestures to the bed, the numerous pieces both finished and in progress. _I can’t pay you for these._

“Don’t be silly, dear, your Witcher is paying my fee.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows at Eskel, who shrugs. Geralt hadn't told him of this plan, but of course they wouldn't dangle this in front of the bard and then take it away. They're not that cruel.

 _The White Wolf is paying?_ Eskel repeats the translation faithfully, trying not to smile at the epitaph Geralt has earned.

“Quite handsomely, too.” Benedikt is digging in yet another trunk, his back to them both, and when he turns it is with a bundle of turquoise fabric in his hands. “This White Wolf of yours knows quality when he sees it. Now, hang on, this is the last of it. It's sturdy enough to travel in, but bright enough to suit, I believe. Look at this stitching—some of my finest work, I think.”

Jaskier looks a little distracted as he nods, stepping behind the folding privacy screen Benedikt had brought. There is a shuffle of silk against skin as he undresses and pulls on the new clothes. When he steps out, Eskel has to fight his instinctive reaction; he does his best to keep hidden the surprise and admiration that run through him at the sight.

The outfit is a combination of matching trousers and doublet, both in vibrant, silky turquoise. The trousers are high waisted, fastening against his flat stomach. Eskel swallows and looks further up, which doesn’t help much. The doublet is unfastened, revealing his deep cut chemise and a broad strip of unexpectedly hairy chest. Fussing, Benedict moves forward, interrupting Eskel’s view.

When he steps away, Eskel can see the shape of the doublet and how it emphasizes Jaskier’s trim waist, while drawing attention to his shoulders. He's seen each of these pieces one at a time, but to see an outfit put together, to see the shape of Jaskier like this, wearing something well tailored and looking like he belongs on a stage… Eskel's own reaction startles him.

 _Thoughts?_ Jaskier asks, throwing open his arms.

He nods, throat suddenly tight. He might be the one able to communicate with him, but Jaskier is Geralt's. As much as he's anyone's, that is. He already sings the praises of the White Wolf to everyone he meets.

“You should show Geralt,” he says, finally. “He’ll be impressed.”

“As he should be,” Benedikt says, dusting Jaskier’s shoulders and tugging the ensemble about to check the fit. “This is fine work.

Jaskier looks so pleased, lighting up like the flower that is his namesake. Eskel is a little startled to find his heart aching. It’s ridiculous.

“We can set up a room for you to finish these things,” he says, instead of thinking about it. “The quarters across the hall have a bed, as well, if you need to stay the night.”

“To finish all this?” Benedikt says, gesturing expansively at all of the clothes they have pinned for adjustments. “I’ll be up the night. But you’re very kind. Yes, I will need a place to work. And plenty of light, thank you! You can start moving these.”

He gestures to a few of the trunks that have been repacked already and Eskel is glad enough for the distraction. He stacks two of them and heads for the door, knowing there is a similar guest suite across the hall. He’ll have to recruit someone to find a few tables and extra lamps, but it’s not impossible work.

After he deposits the tailor's things in the room and steps back into the hall, he can hear Benedikt speaking quietly, tone serious. He pauses, listening intently.

“Dear boy, if they are hurting you, you need only tell me. My Bette and I will find a way to get you out of here. We will find wherever you are going and bring you home with us, damn the consequences.” There is a pause. “Are you sure? This is no illness I’ve ever seen.”

It's ridiculous to think an old man and his wife could do anything against even one Witcher if they wanted to, but somehow Eskel isn't surprised. Jaskier seems to inspire that sort of devotion, at least in any folk who have a shred of good in them. Of course he does: bards are naturally charismatic and even without his voice, Jaskier is charming. He's wrapped all of them around his finger, even the prickliest of them. Eskel has never seen Lambert's walls come down so easily.

He takes an extra moment in the hall, then purposefully steps loudly as he re-enters the room to give the men warning. As he takes up the next pair of trunks, he sees from the corner of his eye that Benedikt and Jaskier are embracing. Jaskier's eyes look wet. After he ferries that armload across the hall and returns again, Jaskier is dressed once more in his old clothing. Benedikt doesn't seem entirely convinced by their conversation; he tuts over the stains on Jaskier's shirt, a frown twisting his lips.

If Jaskier wanted to tell the man the truth he could do so, but perhaps he hasn't because of Eskel's intervention. Perhaps he thinks he shouldn't. Now it's making them both uncertain and unhappy. 

He hesitates, then under his breath he swears and steps forward.

“If I could ask a favor, Master Ket.” He waits until he has the tailor’s full attention. “I have a friend in need of black handkerchiefs.”

“Black… handkerchiefs?” Benedikt squints at him, as though uncertain if this is some kind of joke. Eskel nods. Behind them Jaskier is smiling again, beaming like the sun, despite the stained clothes he’s wearing.

“They would make his life a little easier,” he says with a little shrug. “I think he'd appreciate them.”

Benedikt turns to Jaskier, clearly doing the math in his head. He’s a clever man.

“Well, Master Witcher, black dye is quite expensive and it’s rare for black fabric to be used on such an item, but I suppose I could make an exception,” he agrees after a moment, looking back at Eskel with a firm nod. “For your friend.”

“We'd both appreciate it,” Eskel tells him. “Add it to Geralt’s bill.”

That earns him a smirk from the tailor, and Jaskier hides a smile behind his hand.

He spends the rest of the afternoon helping to set up Benedikt’s workshop and then playing translator as Jaskier sits and chats with the tailor while he works. Jaskier tries to apologize once or twice for monopolizing Eskel's time, but he waves him off. It’s nice to see the bard happy and relaxed. 

He’s relieved of his duties—or rather, once again ordered about by humans, which is becoming a kind of amusing pattern among Jaskier's friends—when Erda finds them with dinner trays. She’s fascinated by Jaskier’s new fancy outfits and happy to take over the conversation and interpretation for him.

She also didn’t bring Eskel any dinner, so he leaves them to it, putting Coën on the door and going to find Geralt and hopefully his own supper.

He follows the sounds and smells of a shared meal until he finds the Wolves set up in one of the smaller halls. The tables are groaning with an impromptu feast: nothing extraordinary by royal standards, but better fare than they've had since late autumn at the keep, when all the stores were full and Witchers were still able to make it up the Killer with carts of supplies. 

"Eskel," Lambert calls. "Heard you were playing dress up with the bard. They couldn't give you something better to wear?"

Eskel flips him the bird and drops onto the bench beside Geralt. "Brought your Cat to dinner. We need to get him a Wolf medallion now?"

It's just unusual enough for schools to mix during meals to warrant a bit of heckling. Aiden just laughs, but he knows he's hit his mark when Lambert bristles.

"We'd throw you out if it was Wolves only," he snaps, throwing a bread roll in his direction. "Horse's arse."

It's Vesemir that reaches out to snag the roll out of the air. 

"A little decorum, pups. Try to remember where you are," he says wearily.

Beside Eskel, Geralt snorts.

"The new king would rather ask our permission to shit than hold us to court etiquette." 

"Be that as it may," Vesemir harrumphs. "Eskel, I was able to locate your Sir Brond in our records."

"Dead already. Yesterday," Geralt says. It's a relief to hear, and good to see Geralt looking so relaxed, sitting among their pack. It's a nice change from the tension he'd been carrying around all day. "How's Jaskier?"

“Good,” Eskel says, grabbing for a plate. “But you should go talk to him. He was pretty surprised we plan to leave tomorrow."

Vesemir lowers his cup at that. Damn, was there ale? Eskel should’ve gotten an ale before he sat down.

“You haven’t told the bard you intend to return to Kaer Morhen?” Vesemir asks. Geralt doesn’t glare at Eskel, but he does set his jaw. “You haven’t asked if he wishes to go?”

“He knows the danger that still faces him and that we intend to see him freed of the curse,” Geralt replies. “He'll want to come. There’s no reason for him to stay.”

“Those aren’t his only options, Wolf,” Vesemir sighs. “It would behoove you to remember he’s been robbed of his agency for months. Don’t do that to him again.

Geralt looks appropriately chagrined at that reminder.

“Go see him," Eskel repeats. He steals Geralt’s cup, pleased to find it more than half full, and has a long draft. “That tailor you set him up with is a master craftsman. He’s thrilled you’re footing the bill.

“Henselt is footing the bill,” Geralt stabs at a bit of pheasant on his plate, not looking up. “A season at court should’ve meant comfort for him. Clothes, food, anything he needed. He’s owed restitution.”

“Is that what this is?” Eskel asks. They could have compensated the man in gold easily enough. This thing with the tailor seems so much more… intimate. Thoughtful.

“Yes.” Geralt doesn't quite roll his eyes at him, but it's a near thing. “What was taken from him should be returned. The means to pursue his profession. Voice, clothes, instrument. Lambert, how’s it going finding a lute?”

“Found a craftsman in the city that can make us one, but it’ll take time,” Lambert says, picking through the bones on his plate idly. “Few weeks, at least.”

“Maybe we’ll find one on the way to the keep?” Eskel suggests. Geralt growls.

“If he agrees to come.”

“He will.” Eskel has no doubts about that. They need to offer him the choice, the opportunity to return to his home, or to go elsewhere, but he's certain that Jaskier will come with them. “And Yennefer? She said it went well this morning, has she found anything?”

"She led us to the witch’s workshop,” Aiden pipes up. “While you lot were being diplomats. Got to see a few nice traps in action. There’s not much left there, but she combed it over. Said she’ll leave in the morning. She’ll probably want to speak with you first, I imagine.”

“Hm,” three of them say at once: Vesemir, Geralt and Eskel. Lambert snorts at that, shaking his head, and Aiden's smile is sly. Eskel downs some more ale and reaches for the bowl of rolls in the center of the table to pair with his own plate of pheasant. 

“Yen won’t travel with us. She has her own home and her own contacts,” Geralt says finally. “I’ll speak with her tonight.”

“After you speak with Jaskier.” Vesemir gives him a hard look. Geralt huffs.

“Yes. After I speak with Jaskier.” Geralt turns to Eskel. “We’ll go when you’ve finished.”

Eskel considers, for half a second, protesting. He’s not the one who failed to communicate things to Jaskier, after all, and he’s not sure he wants to see his brother make an utter fool of himself in front of the bard. The two are orbiting one another, fated to collide eventually and it will be good for them both but painful to see.

Then again, he can’t leave Jaskier without a way to communicate any questions he may have. That wouldn’t be fair. So he nods and downs the rest of his stolen ale, shoving the mug back at Geralt in silent request for some more as he turns back to his plate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you for your patience. This chapter fought me every step of the way. Big thanks to Luxie again for helping realize literally two days ago that it needed to be from Geralt's perspective, which led to some reorganization and a big rewrite. I hope you all enjoy it! Wishing you well on this, the first of the worst month.

The plates are empty and the ale is almost gone when Yennefer steps into the hall they've claimed. She raises one perfectly manicured brow at the sight of the pack relaxing. The Wolves sprawled in their chairs quickly stiffen up at the sight of her and pause in their stories and Gwent. Then her gaze lands on Geralt. 

"A word, if you would?" She turns and disappears into the hall again, and around him Geralt's brothers all "oooh" as though he's an adept again, called into a master's office for some prank or misbehavior. He rolls his eyes as Vesemir chides them, drops the last of his sweet roll on Eskel's plate, and goes to follow her.

Together they retreat to the quarters she's claimed, walking in silence save for the click of her heels against the flagstone. The night is still young, and he's mostly confident that these walls don't yet have ears, but Yennefer will speak when she's ready and he trusts her enough to follow her lead.

"How fares your bard?" she asks, when he pulls the door closed behind them. She hasn't stopped moving, continuing to the bottle of wine and set of cups on the hearth. The room is barer than when she arrived, most of her things already packed away or sent off. There's still a megascope set up in one corner of the room, but it appears inactive.

"He's not mine." He expected this from all other corners, but from Yenn, too? He frowns at her, even as she offers him a cup. 

"You've taken responsibility for his health, safety, and happiness, have you not?"

"Hmm." He doesn't dignify that with a real response, not when she'll claim it as a point in her favor.

"I thought as much." She watches him from behind her cup, waiting for more.

"Jaskier is fine. Recovered from this morning, according to Eskel," he says finally. "Did you know he's a Viscount?"

"Mm, no. It didn't come up," she admits. "I'm afraid our… conversation… was a tad more involved than that. We didn't share childhood stories and favorite colors."

"You saw what was done to him."

"I did." 

He watches her, sees the way her gaze flicks down and away.

"And you?"

She sets her drink aside with a gusty sigh and crosses the room toward the hearth, holding out her hands to the flames.

"Me what, Geralt?"

"How are you faring?"

"Fine, just fine," she says over her shoulder. "I'm not your little Viscount in need of rescuing. I can see to myself perfectly well, thank you."

"I know you can," he replies, because he does. Yennefer could bring the whole palace down around them in a pile of rubble if she was so inclined. If she was the one they were up against, they'd be truly fucked. "Good."

She nods sharply and turns back to him. 

"Now that we've established as much, perhaps I can catch you up to speed."

He nods, setting down his cup and waving at her to go on.

"The staff were able to point me to the wing from which Euphenia conducted most of her business, both professional and private, but I'm afraid there wasn't much to be found there. From Jaskier's memories and with a few spells of my own I was able to puzzle out the location of another workshop, which proved  _ much _ more interesting." She sits down on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. Her dress rides up, slit open at the thigh as it is.

A year ago, Geralt might have found the less than subtle display of skin distracting, but now he's more interested in what Yennefer has to say.

"Why would she have another workshop? Everything she did was sanctioned by the king, wasn't it?"

"Yes and no," she says, dipping her head. "Euphenia is a manipulator by nature. It's more accurate to say everything Henselt did was for her benefit. She wanted children— or, rather, children's life energy."

Yennefer had explained briefly to him that there was no virility spell involved in the cannibalism they had discovered, but this is something new altogether. Geralt doesn't interrupt, but waits for her to go on.

"It's no small thing what she's done to your bard, and her grasp on magic isn't suited to it."

There's something in the way Yennefer speaks that catches his attention. 

"Is that your professional opinion?" he asks. "Or personal?"

An unfamiliar voice answers him from the corner where the megascope sits, now flickering with power.

"Regardless of her history with Euphenia, Yennefer's assessment is correct," says the image of a sorceress in a high collared coat, hair tightly and neatly coiled. She is reserved and stern in all the ways that Yennefer isn't. "The girl simply doesn't have the aptitude for such a curse under her own power, which is likely why she turned to blood magic. Forbidden, but effective for her purposes."

"So good of you to join us, Rectoress," Yennefer says, turning to the image with an expression that Geralt's brain immediately describes as 'smarmy'. "And you've caught up, it seems. Now perhaps you could explain how Euphenia ended up in a royal court, when last I heard she was floating about the minor nobility in Kerack?"

"You manage court assignments," Geralt infers, nodding to the sorceress in the megascope. 

"I do, Witcher. Were it not for an appalling lack of viable candidates in her year, Euphenia wouldn't have Ascended at all. She's not fit for a royal assignment. Nevertheless, she was visiting his majesty's court when Deliaza met her end in an unfortunate alchemical accident. Henselt took a liking to her and refused the candidate we offered to send in her stead."

"That's not suspicious at all." 

"Kings do as they wish," the Rectoress informs him stiffly. "We provide the best options available."

"Clearly not," Yennefer mutters. "Thank you, Tissaia. That will be all." She waves her hand at the megascope and the lights dim, the other sorceress' image vanishing. 

"What was that about?" Geralt asks, folding his arms over his chest. "When she said you have history with Euphenia?"

"We were at Aretuza together for a time," Yennefer says disinterestedly, getting to her feet and moving to disassemble the megascope. "Very near my Ascension, she was first brought in. A perfectly formed, precious little noble's daughter. It infuriated her to see anything come to others easily that she had to work for herself. She could never stand watching anyone else succeed. I was the focus of her ire for some time."

"Surprised you let her get away with that," Geralt says. He's never been able to imagine Yennefer young and less confident, less perfect than she is now.

"Yes, well. A court assignment gets you everything you want, didn't you know?" Her expression is sharp. "At the very least it got me away from her."

He knows more about monsters than he does about sorceresses and politics, but he doesn't have to be an expert to know that Yennefer was never satisfied with court life and abandoned it all, much to the disapproval of her peers. She's been doing this freelancing, whatever it is, for more than a decade now and seems better for it. He nods, a bit uncertain. 

"In any case, we know that she placed herself in a royal court, used that influence to get access to children and began experimenting with blood magic," Yennifer says. "Possibly she had something to do with Deliaza's accident. But it's this curse that's the most interesting. What she cast on the bard was intended to be a sort of test run. She was still perfecting the spell."

"What?" Geralt straightens at that, horrified by the thought. It's bad enough to know that the curse is a punishment for Jaskier, but the idea that Euphenia is trying to perfect it to cast again on someone else is… it's a lot to take in. "How do you know?"

"She kept notes," Yennefer says simply, not looking at him as she places pieces of the megascope into a trunk. "Notes on how well it took, whether the effects were still in place. The ritual itself, the power she'd accumulated and set into a crystal. She may have been a terrible sorceress, but she was an impeccable notekeeper." 

Geralt considers this. They've hit the point that he very nearly wants to step away and declare it not his problem. How did they get here? Going after crazed sorceresses is only, possibly, tangentially part of the Witcher gig. Usually they stick to curses they know how to lift on their own and let the magical community sort themselves out.

Except… this woman hurt Jaskier, badly, and they need to get to her to fix that. Knowing what she's planning is one step in finding her. They were always taught that knowledge about their enemies is just as important as their physical abilities. There's no use in fighting a monster with a steel sword.

"Do you think you can undo it?" he asks. He'll hunt Euphenia down if he has to, will make sure she tastes steel (or dimeritium, at least) but Jaskier deserves an answer sooner than that. 

Yennefer's mouth twists unhappily. 

"I'm not saying it can't be undone," she says carefully, giving each word due consideration. "But this sort of magic is forbidden for reasons that even I've respected, so I'm not well versed in it. Given time, I may be able to understand the process she used, but Euphenia may be the only one who can undo it. I can't speak with any certainty at the moment."

It's not the answer he'd like, but he's always preferred the truth to pretty lies.

"Thank you, Yen. Is there anything else?"

"Not at the moment, no. I'll be leaving shortly." She sends a tight smile over her shoulder. "Go see your bard. Contact me when you arrive at Kaer Morhen. I'll be in touch if I learn anything before then."

~

Eskel is waiting for him in the suite Vesemir claimed. The two Wolves have their heads bent over some report or another, but look up when he enters. 

"Alright?" Eskel asks, expression crumpling in concern at whatever he sees on Geralt's face. Geralt waves him off.

"Fine. What are you two getting into?"

"King Stanert has asked Vesemir to stay behind for a few weeks, as things settle in Ard Carraigh," Eskel explains. 

"Hm." Geralt takes the report, which turns out to be a very politely worded request. It's not even an order, it is literally a request for Vesemir to stay on as an advisor. "Trap, do you think? Easy enough to isolate and punish you for all that's happened here."

"I don't think so," Vesemir replies. "The lad— his majesty, I mean, seems honest enough. We've weeded out the worst of the courtiers, too. A number of the royal advisors do think, bafflingly enough, I have some sort of expertise that they could use."

Geralt doesn't quite trust it. A royal court isn't exactly the first place he'd expect to find his old swordmaster and mentor the most helpful. But Vesemir is right, in that he hasn't sensed any ill intent or open hostility from the nobles and new royalty they're leaving in charge.

"Suppose we'll survive a few weeks at the keep without you," he says.

"You'll manage," Vesemir agrees. "Now go talk to your bard."

"I'm going," Geralt grumbles, a bit annoyed to be told for the second time in an hour. "Figure he'd prefer to be able to talk back. Coming, Eskel?"

When they arrive, Coën is still on door duty. His relaxed posture indicates there hasn't been a lick of trouble, but he's grateful to be relieved for the night nevertheless. Eskel indicates the room that's serving as Benedikts workshop and together they enter.

The room within is quiet, unexpectedly so, and the reason becomes apparent immediately as they enter. Jaskier is sprawled in the center of the bed, dressed in an outfit of sky blue. He's fast asleep.

Geralt freezes at the sight, eyes skating over the figure of the bard on the bed. He's laying on his back, dressed… well. It feels almost indecent to look as he takes in the unfastened doublet, the delicately embroidered chemise, and the enticing vee of chest hair on display. Even though the man's eyes are closed, Geralt knows the fabric matches them perfectly. 

"Gentlemen?" Benedikt is hunched beside a lamp, a pair of trousers in hand. He doesn't look up when he speaks.

"We needed to speak with Jaskier," Geralt rumbles, dragging his eyes away from the man in question. "Apologies. Do you have everything you need?"

"And more," Benedikt replies agreeably. "I've a number of assistants that should be arriving soon, to help me finish with all of this. If you'd take the lad back to his room that would be a kindness. Erda said there's some issue with sleeping on his back."

Geralt nods. That's good. Hopefully Jaskier will want to come with them; he'll need his new clothing finished by morn to do so. He moves forward, intending to scoop the bard into his arms to carry him across the hall, but Eskel stops him with a stern look and a hand to his chest.

He watches, instead, as his brother approaches Jaskier and touches his shoulder gently. 

"Wake up, Jaskier. Geralt's here. We've come to take you back to your room."

Ah. More lessons in returning the man's autonomy. Unfortunately this one backfires, as Jaskier tries to make some kind of sleepy, inquisitive noise and quickly chokes on it as bile floods his throat. Geralt steps forward and hauls him upright to help clear his airways.

"Here," Benedikt says behind him, throwing a square of cloth their way. Geralt catches the black handkerchief and presses it carefully to Jaskier's lips, encouraging him to spit as needed. 

Jaskier's cheeks are flushed and he smells of embarrassment as his coughing fades. He signs with a shaky hand and Geralt recognizes the apology even before Eskel voices it.

"It's fine." He realizes he's still holding the man to his chest and lets go abruptly, stepping away. "You needn't apologize. I would speak to you, though."

"Are you alright?" Eskel asks. He offers Jaskier a hand to stand. "We can speak in your room. Benedikt has help coming here."

Jaskier agrees with a nod. His hair is tousled from his nap in a way that absolutely shouldn't be charming. He turns to Benedikt, fingering the doublet on his shoulders.  _ Do you need this back? _

"No, dear boy, but don't sleep in it. The creases will be unmanageable." Benedikt gives him a little wave. "I'll see you in the morning."

Jaskier makes a 'one moment' sign and steps behind the privacy screen to change. When he emerges again it's just in the chemise and a pair of plain linen trousers, the light blue ensemble draped over his arm. He pecks Benedikt's cheek and pads out the door, entirely unselfconscious about the state of his dress.

Geralt swallows and determinedly avoids his brother's gaze, knowing that Jaskier would probably be a bit more self-conscious if he had a Witcher's sense of smell. There's no hiding anything from his brother anyway, so he lets his eyes linger on Jaskier for just a moment more before looking away as they follow him across the hall.

Jaskier fusses about for a moment and then settles on the bed, curled against the headboard. Eskel claims the chair beside the bed, leaving Geralt to perch awkwardly on the bed. Jaskier has an open, attentive expression, and Eskel gestures for him to get to it.

"It was brought to my attention that I haven't… kept you informed. Not as informed as you should be," Geralt admits finally. It's easier to direct his words to the blanket between them. When Eskel doesn't speak to translate, he glances up and forges onward.

"We're leaving tomorrow. The Witchers, that is. Kaedwen has a new king. King Stanert." Jaskier might not want to come. He might want to go home, or to Oxenfurt, or literally anywhere else. He's personable, surely he has friends everywhere. Geralt has to convince him but still respect his decision. Let him know he has options. He wets his lips with his tongue. "We can only protect you as long as you come with us, but we won't force you to come. You aren't a prisoner."

_ Where are you going?  _ Jaskier asks. He looks curious, though the intonation in his brother's voice is somewhat flat.

"Home," Geralt says. "Or— as much a home as we have. Each school had their own keep, once, but the Wolf School's is the only one left. It's called Kaer Morhen. It's up north in the mountains. We're made to walk the Path, but a few of the Wolves will make for the keep, with you. If you choose to come." 

_Who?_ _How long will it take to get there?_

It's good that he's asking questions rather than leaping straight into a decision; hopefully that means he's also confident enough to say no if he doesn't like the answers he receives, Geralt thinks, even though he hopes that he won't say no. He can tell Eskel is thinking the same by the way he looks at the bard.

"Myself, Eskel, and Aubry," Geralt names. "Lambert, Aiden, and Coën. Not just Wolves— Coën is a Griffin, and Aiden a Cat. We invited Junod and Axel, but they refused."

At Jaskier's expression of confusion, Eskel elaborates. "Junod and Axel were with us during the first assault on the palace. If Euphenia has a grudge against specific Witchers, it will be those who were in that group. Better to stick together."

"We'll also be bringing two children," Geralt continues, thanking him with a nod. "One, we believe comes from one of the villages to the north. The other we know comes from Coldpass, the settlement at the base of our mountain. We'll reunite them with their families, and also travel with coin and goods from the king's coffers to distribute. The journey will take a couple of weeks. Three, at the outside."

_ Of course I will come _ , Jaskier says.  _ I can offer you no payment for protecting me. I'm trouble, instead. I'm sorry. _

Geralt's elation is quickly undermined, and he squints at Eskel. Trouble? His brother raises his hands to show his innocence, that he's interpreted the bard's words faithfully. That Jaskier hasn't protested his words seems proof enough, but it's still baffling.

"You… you don't have to apologize," Geralt says haltingly. He reaches out, placing an upward palm between them on the bed. "And you don't owe us anything. We've taken the king's money, for what he did to you, and to the children. We have some for you, actually. I'm… I'm only sorry we haven't yet found a lute for you."

Jaskier laughs at that, actually laughs, and doesn't even appear upset when he has to scramble for a handkerchief to stop the bile. He shakes his head, hiding a smile behind the cloth.

_ I can't ask for more. Don't you know how much you've already done? _

Eskel and Geralt exchange a helpless look as Eskel translates. What have they done, exactly? Treated the man like a human being, given him some clothes, and made promises about helping him, but not much more than that it feels like. 

_ I won't slow you down along the way, I promise. I'm a good traveler.  _ Jaskier reaches out and squeezes Geralt's hand at that.  _ Is there more?  _

"No," Geralt says quietly. "Get some rest."

Jaskier flops dramatically down among his pillows and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders.

"On your side," Eskel reminds him. "Don't choke before we've even left."

He adjusts with a huff. Geralt watches him, feeling as though he should say something else. Eskel lowers the lamp and offers him a hand up before he can decide. Accepting his help, Geralt lets his brother guide him out. There will be time tomorrow for more words. Weeks, in fact, now that Jaskier has decided to travel with them.

So what is this feeling that has his stomach in knots?


End file.
